TCOT Absurd Assumption
by Old English D
Summary: An attempt to 'fix' what has always bothered me about Perry Mason Returns. Not an alternate universe story, just one trying to make sense of what never changes no matter how many times I watch the movie. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

TCOT Absurd Assumption Chapter 1

_Note: This is the first chapter of my attempt at what I think are missing moments from __**Perry Mason Returns**__. The movie bothered me from the very first broadcast and every repeated viewing since, so I decided a couple of years ago that I would attempt to 'fix' it and dashed off a few chapters. Then I shelved it to write stories with the late, great Michelle Weiner, and pulled it out of my bunny file after finishing __**Destination Christmas**__. _

_I don't consider this an alternate universe type of story, because it follows the plot of PMR. What I wanted to do was make the movie make sense to me so I can finally sleep at night._

_A huge thank you to my beta, the one and only, great and powerful **S**__**tartWriting**__, who added just the right word and/or phrase here and there that I didn't realize needed to be added. ~ D_

* * *

><p><em>Clang!<em>

_Clang!_

_Clang!_

Three sets of iron doors, closing behind her emphatically, punctuating the current circumstances.

_Clang!_

_Clang!_

_Clang!_

How improperly incongruous was it that all she could think about was Judy Garland and a trolley car?

_Clang!_

_Clang!_

_Clang!_

A cage of iron bars crowded with twenty other women having arguably as bad a day as she was.

* * *

><p>Della had run through all of the clichés from surreal to ludicrous to nightmarish to describe the past several hours, and none of them came close to tapping into the suffocating grief and bewilderment she felt. Arthur Gordon was dead. Murdered. And she had been arrested for his murder. How could that be?<p>

She rubbed at her wrists, chafed from the handcuffs placed on her by Lt. Cooper after her dress – that awful dress she'd bought to satisfy a standard of decorum – had turned up in her trash can bloodied and torn. The most damning piece of evidence uncovered in what she thought – what she _**knew**_ – would be a fruitless search of her house, she was actually perversely pleased to be rid of the shapeless floral disaster…a violent shiver traveled through her and approximately twenty pairs of curious eyes pinned themselves on the new arrival, so obviously out of place, a perfect little lady from head to toe struggling to maintain her composure in a most unexpected, unlikely setting.

A tall girl seated on the end of the lone, long wooden bench in the cell stood and beckoned to the newcomer. Her overly-permed hair was dyed an alarming shade of red that clashed horribly with her skintight orange knit dress, and heavy make-up disguised the youthful contours of her face. She couldn't have been much over eighteen. "Take mah seat, ma'am," she said in a thickly southern-accented voice, busily chewing a wad of gum.

This was probably the one time Della wasn't nettled by being called _ma'am_. She smiled gratefully at the girl, who upon closer inspection Della determined could have been pretty if not for the garish, clashing colors she was covered in. "Thank you. I will." She sat down on the battered bench as the girl, easily six feet tall in her stiletto heels, stood sentinel next to her, sending a clear signal for the other cell inhabitants to stay away from this well-dressed fish out of water.

"Y'all don't look like ya b'long here, ma'am. We 'uns all say that, but y'all really don't." The girl smiled, exposing a mouth full of crooked teeth as well as the glob of pink gum.

"I – I didn't do what I was arrested for, if that's what you mean."

The tall girl's smile became sly. "Weeelll, we 'uns all say that, too, don't we, Lou? 'Ceptin' we really _**did **_do whut we was 'rested for!"

"Speak for yourself, Lady," interposed the pale, rickety girl sitting next to Della on the bench. Lou, about the same age as the tall girl, with jet-black hair, and dressed in much the same outfit as her compatriot, nudged Della with her elbow and lowered one eyelid caked with frosty pale blue eye shadow. "I didn't do what I was arrested for either. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business. I s'pose you were too, Lady…mindin' your own business, that is."

The tall girl let out a loud laugh. "That's whut _**street walkers**_ do…mind their own bus'ness!" She placed her back against the painted cinder block wall and slid her body down it until she was resting on her haunches, oblivious to the view every other woman in the cell was treated to. She blew a big bubble that popped and hung from the tip of her nose. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, but y'all don't look like one of us. Ya sorta look like a poor little shined deer." She removed the gum from her mouth and nose, and inspected it thoroughly before placing it back in her mouth.

"My name is Della," Della said impulsively after the third use of _ma'am, _wondering what a 'shined deer' looked like.

"Ya don't say! Mah given name is 'most the same. Adelaide. 'Cept mah go-by name be Lady. Ain't that funny?"

Della didn't quite know what was funny – the similarity of their names or the fact that a street walker's 'go-by' name was _Lady_. She merely nodded, careful to keep her last name to herself.

"At home mah go-by name be Addie." Lady lowered her voice. "In case y'all haven't noticed, I ain't from 'round here."

Della smiled, despite the absurdity of the situation, thoroughly enjoying this little talk with the clever Lady and Lou. "No, I hadn't noticed."

The dark-haired girl sitting next to Della burst out laughing and nudged her once more with a sharp elbow. "She got you at your own game, Lady!"

"That's a good 'un, a 'right," Lady admitted, her grin once again displaying that mouthful of overlapping teeth. "I's borned an' raised in Kentucky."

"That's a long way from California. Whereabouts in Kentucky?"

"Oh, a little holler _**I**_ ain't even heared of." Lady's eyes sparkled with mischief at her own joke.

Della chuckled. "How did you get to California, Lady?"

"Well, mah daddy married me off ta Call-yer Jessup, an' he got it in 'im ta head out here ta be in the pit-chers. Call-yer, he's a tom cat's kitten an' can charm birds outen' the trees, an' some gal tole 'im the camera liked 'im, an' that was that." Lady shrugged, clearly not knowing what _**that**_ meant. "You prolly seen 'im an' never even knowed it. Was in just 'bout ever Sears an' Roebuck catalog a coupla years ago. In his skivvies, no less. Spent all our money on fixin' his teeth an' they never let 'im smile!"

"You're married?"

"Since I's fourteen," Lady confirmed with a nod. "But Call-yer, he throwed me out to work when thar warn't no babies. Said I hadda earn mah keep if'n we was ta stay married."

"I'm sorry, Lady."

"Pssheeew," Lady said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Joke's on Call-yer. Warn't but a month I's walkin' the street an' come up with a baby. Call-yer says he's the spittin' image of his daddy."

"But I thought you said…" Della wondered why Lady was still, um, _**working **_now that there was a baby.

Lady laughed at Della's confusion. "I ain't all that smart, Miss Della, but I's smarter than Call-yer Jessup." And she left it at that, very self-satisfied.

Della glanced at Lou, who just shrugged.

"Whatcha in for, anyways, Miss Della?"

"Um, well…my employer was…killed last night."

Lady's eyes widened. "Ya kilt yer boss?"

Della shook her head. "No, no. It's all a misunderstanding."

"We all say that, too," Lou chimed in, leaning toward Della.

"Ya got a good law-yer?"

Della nodded. "Actually, I used to work for a lawyer. He's a judge now."

"Pssheeew," Lady exclaimed, impressed. "How's it yer penned up in here if yer 'quainted with judges an' such?" She blew another bubble, smaller this time, sucking it back in before it popped all over her face again.

It was Della's turn to shrug. "The wheels of justice," she stated.

Both girls just looked at her, trying not to show they didn't quite understand.

"Sometimes," Della explained, "the police make you play by _**all **_the rules."

Both Lady and Lou nodded vigorously at that in complete understanding.

There was a clanging at the front of the detention cell and the three of them looked up toward the noise, as did the seventeen (Della counted) other inhabitants of the large cell.

"Miss Street! Miss Della Street! Time for your phone call." The matron who had escorted Della to the detention cell was waving to her.

Della rose and shook out her wrinkled skirt. "Thank you for letting me sit down, Lady," she said. "I appreciate it very much."

"Your last name is _Street_?" Lou asked, unable to contain a grin. Her teeth were straighter than Lady's, although tinged a deep shade of yellow.

Lady walked herself back up the wall to her full, impressive height. "Mama tole me to always act like I got some raisin', Miss Della. I'll save the place for ya 'til ya come back."

"That's very nice of you, Lady."

"Ya gonna call that judge?"

Della stomach flip-flopped and the smile she attempted trembled. "I think I will."

* * *

><p>Normally Perry Mason wouldn't answer his telephone and let the answering machine pick it up, but years of being told by a certain someone that if telephones ring before eight o'clock in the morning or after ten o'clock at night the call was almost certainly of great importance forced his hand from under the covers to grab at the handset and drag it to his ear.<p>

"It's seven-eighteen in the blessed a.m. on a Saturday," he grumbled ominously, "whoever this is better make a good case for calling so early."

The voice on the other end of the line, tiny, uncertain, barely a whisper, was the voice his own thoughts spoke in. "Perry…"

Perry Mason threw off the covers and sat bolt upright, heart pounding. "Della? Della, what's the matter?"

"Perry, Arthur was…he was killed last night."

Perry ran his hand through sleep mussed hair as a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Arthur? Tragg was killed? How? What happened? Is Mildreth all right?"

"N-not Arthur Tragg…Arthur _**Gordon**_."

_Arthur Gordon_? "Gordon – your boss? Your boss was killed last night?"

"Yes. Murdered." Her voice grew stronger with each word. "Perry…I've – I've been arrested."

"Arrested? What the… Are you all right, Della?"

"Considering I'm in the hoosegow," she replied sarcastically, "I'm just dandy." Hearing Perry's voice had restored the _**vim **_Arthur said he admired so much...oh dear. "I'm sorry for calling you so early…I only have one call and..."

"Good grief, Della, don't apologize. Why didn't you call sooner?"

"I-I couldn't. The police dragged me out of bed before the crack of dawn for questioning at Arthur's estate, then they searched the house, and the next thing I knew, I was cuffed and stuffed into a police car."

At any other time, 'cuffed and stuffed' would have made him chuckle. "You let the police into the house? Without a warrant? Della, what on earth were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I had nothing to hide," she snapped irritably, recalling the countless times he had warned clients not to let the police search their premises without Perry being present or being presented with a duly signed search warrant. "At least I didn't think I did. The police think otherwise. "

"Oookay. I'll make a few calls and you'll be out before they finish processing the paperwork."

"Perry, the paperwork is already processed. It's murder. I don't think you can get me out of jail from San Francisco with a few phone calls. I need a lawyer."

"I'll get you a lawyer," Perry promised grimly. "Don't worry, Della. I'll take care of everything. Sit tight and try to take it easy."

"I – I have to go now. The matron is signaling my time is up...I'm sorry to have bothered you, Perry."

Perry sat staring at the handset for several seconds after Della hung up, mind working furiously. What the hell? Della Street charged with murder? A squealing tone emanated from the handset and he dropped it back into the cradle. Then he immediately picked it back up and dialed the first of three telephone numbers he'd swiftly decided to call.

None of the numbers were for a Los Angeles exchange.

After completing the third and last call, Perry Mason bounded out of bed and headed for the living room of his pre-war apartment to the mahogany roll-top desk he abhorred but had been coerced into buying on a weekend of 'antiquing'. He sat down and pulled a legal pad in front of him. With great flair and a decided flourish, His Honor Perry Mason began furiously scribbling a document guaranteed to send shockwaves through every hall and chamber of the San Francisco Civic Center, as well as up and down Mission Street.

* * *

><p>Della had been surprised and grateful, yet oddly disappointed, that following her telephone call, well <em><strong>calls<strong>_, since the matron allowed her to make a surreptitious second call after hanging up with Perry; she was not returned to the crowded detention cell and her new friends Lady and Lou, but was escorted to a semi-private cell with only one other occupant. She was even more grateful that the other occupant had chosen to stretch out on the top bunk, leaving her the relative privacy of the bottom bunk. In all her years working for Perry Mason, whenever she had been detained, and even the one time she had been arrested and charged for concealing a witness, Della had never spent one minute in a cell. Usually Lieutenant Arthur Tragg or District Attorney Hamilton Burger himself would hold her in their offices until after much manly posturing and tossing of legal brick-bats, Perry 'convinced' them to release her. The prestige of being Perry Mason's secretary extended far into the legal system back then. Everyone knew that the formidable attorney was a sleeping tiger when it came to his secretary, and avoided poking him whenever possible with that particular stick unless _**absolutely**_ necessary.

What she didn't know, was that the prestige and privileges afforded her as Perry Mason's secretary paled in comparison to the esteem in which she was held _**personally **_by the legal system. _**That **_was actually why she never spent a minute in a jail cell, even when she technically should have.

The dark confines of the bottom bunk comforted her a bit, and after removing her suit jacket and placing it over the flat pillow, Della laid down on the hard, thin mattress, pulled a scratchy blanket over drawn-up legs, and laid there, grateful thricely that the rather impressive snoring of her cellmate covered the sound of her sobbing.

She must have dozed a little, because it seemed as if immediately after her grieving sobs for Arthur Gordon subsided, and she started to wonder when the attorney Perry hired would arrive, and who it would be, the friendly matron returned and unlocked the cell door noisily.

"Up and at 'em, Miss Street," she called out cheerfully. "Your lawyer has arrived. We're going to bend another rule and let you meet face-to-face instead of behind glass."

Della sat up and blinked, running her hand through unruly curls. "What time is it?"

"About eleven o'clock," the matron, Darla, replied cheerfully. "Just another four hours and I'm off shift. Come on, time's money with these lawyers." She cackled with much amusement at her own joke, which caused the occupant of the upper bunk to snort and flop around on the mattress that wasn't much softer than a cement slab if it was anything like the bottom bunk.

Della climbed out of the bunk and into her fine leather pumps, and with a covert glance at the exposed commode at the opposite end of the cell, pulled on her suit jacket and adjusted her twisted, wrinkled skirt. "Lead the way," she told Darla.

"We'll stop at the ladies room outside the visiting center in the Criminal Courts Building," Darla whispered as she relocked the cell door. Darla had allowed Della to use public facilities after her telephone calls, because she firmly believed a lady like Miss Street shouldn't have to be humiliated, no matter what the cops thought she might have done. The matron had accompanied her, unlocking only one hand from the restraints, even though she knew Miss Street was not the type who would try any funny stuff.

Della smiled her thanks. "No restraints?" She had been restrained during her transfer from the detention cell to the telephone, and then again from that room to the semi-private cell.

Darla shook her head of frizzy permed hair. "You must have a guardian angel in the police department, Miss Street. Orders keep coming down to treat you more like a guest than an inmate. I'm just doing what I'm told to do."

_**Inmate**__?_ Ye gods, Della thought. I'm an _**inmate**_.

Darla cackled again. "Otherwise you'd still be in the detention cell between those two charming _**ladies**_ and hoping your bladder won't burst because it's harder to pee in front of twenty awake women than it is in front of just one that's asleep."

Impressive, Della thought. Perry's phone calls had yielded quick results. "I appreciate it, Darla."

They walked in silence through two more clanging iron bar doors, out of the women's jail facility and to a prisoner transfer elevator that would deposit them in the Criminal Courts Building. "I would have used the commode no matter how many women were in that detention cell," Della announced suddenly, after the metal doors slid shut.

Darla gave Della a sidelong glance. "I think you would have," she said with unconcealed admiration. "You were always the picture of a lady, Miss Street, always nice to us matrons at the jail even when your boss's clients sometimes weren't. I don't think you could kill anyone. I've learned to size people up after working here for twelve years. There just isn't that criminal thing in your eyes."

"Why, thank you for that vote of confidence, Darla. I assure you that I did not kill Mr. Gordon."

The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened. Darla stood back to allow Della to exit first, and held her arm as she escorted her down the corridor toward the interview rooms. The matron came to a halt in front of a metal door marked WOMEN. "Miss Street, I'm so confident that I'm not even going in with you this time."

* * *

><p>Della stood with her back to the entrance of the visitor's room, suit jacket off, arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window at the courtyard below. How many times had she been in a room similar to this – or possibly in this specific room – over the years? Hundreds, that's how many. Hundreds of clients, hundreds of statements, hundreds of steno pads filled with stories of deceit, betrayal, victimization, guilt, innocence, fear. Who would take down <em><strong>her<strong>_ story today? She didn't know if Frank Heartwell, Perry's law school friend and the most likely attorney she figured he would call on to handle her case, still used a secretary to take down statements since his of nearly twenty years had retired recently, or if he recorded them on tape as so many of the younger attorneys, as well as the police, were doing nowadays.

She heard the door of the room open and close, but heard no approaching footsteps. The little hairs at the back of her neck began to prickle in a familiar way…she spun around toward the entrance.

"Ever since you called this morning I've been thinking about who should represent you," Perry said gruffly without greeting or preamble. "And the best attorney I could think of is me."

Della's chin began to wobble and tears pooled in her eyes. Of all the possibilities, this was the one she hadn't dared to consider. She hugged her suit jacket close for strength. "Since when," she began, overcome by his presence, "since when are appellate court judges permitted to represent defendants?"

"They're not."

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "You'd have to step down from the bench, Perry."

He heard the plea in her voice, as well as the resistance. "I've already signed my resignation."

"Perry," she whispered brokenly, trying to object, tears now streaming down her face.

He held up his hand. "Della, let's just say I'm tired of writing opinions. This is where I need to be."

"Oh…Perry." Della took one faltering step and fell into his waiting embrace. Perry held her slight, trembling body against his, one hand at the small of her back, the other pressing her head to his chest, smoothing disheveled curls as she sobbed. Yes, this was exactly where he needed to be.

"Shhh, baby" he said gently. "It's going to be all right, Della. I'm going to meet with the District Attorney – you remember Jack Welles – in about twenty minutes. You'll be home by one."

She lifted her head and looked at him, tried to speak, but all that emerged was a choked sob. Perry shushed her and placed her head back on his expansive chest, laying his chin against her temple. But she pushed away from him again.

"I thought you'd send Frank Heartwell," she said, gulping and hiccupping between every word, hands gripping the lapels of his topcoat.

"Well now, Frank is a good, reliable attorney," Perry answered a mite smugly, eyes twinkling, hoping for a smile from her, "but he's not me."

Della rewarded him by lifting the corners of her mouth slightly. "No. Frank is definitely not you. Sometimes I can't believe _**you're**_ you."

"You'd better watch what you say to your attorney," he cautioned, tapping the tip of her pert nose with his index finger. "Your attorney who brought coffee."

"Coffee?" Della perked up instantly, looking around and finally spying the cup on a table near the doorway.

Perry allowed himself a chuckle as Della made a beeline for the Styrofoam cup, leaving him standing in the middle of the room holding her suit jacket. "We don't have much time, Della. I need you to give me the highlights before I see Jack Welles. I can't believe he allowed this to happen."

Della closed her eyes and inhaled gratefully the heady aroma of steaming coffee. "Eight years is a long time, Perry," she said pointedly. "Most of the people we worked with have either retired or…" she couldn't say the word, in fact, could barely think it. She sniffed. They had lost too many friends and colleagues in that span of time. And now one more.

"There are still enough old-timers around who would recognize your name."

"You mean your name," she said archly over the rim of the squeaky Styrofoam cup.

"Young lady, I assure you that your name carried far more weight in the judicial system than mine ever did."

It pleased Perry very much that she laughed. He moved toward her and draped the suit jacket over her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze in the process. "Well, the matron did say I must have a guardian angel somewhere in the system," Della admitted. "I was moved from the main detention cell to a semi-private cell right after I called you."

"There's your proof. I didn't make any calls to Los Angeles." He could barely stand the thought of Della in that detention cell, a veritable cesspool of shady characters, but in his haste to get to LA he hadn't made a single call on her behalf.

"You didn't?"

"No." Perry shook his head. "Once I decided to defend you myself, there wasn't time. I submitted my resignation, packed, and chartered a plane."

Della cocked her head slightly to the left and raised one eyebrow. "I guess three hours in a jail cell is a small price to pay for the services of the greatest criminal attorney in the country."

Perry actually thought he felt red spots appear on his cheeks, and Della's satisfied smirk confirmed their existence. "Well, after all, Della…"

"Perry, I'm not complaining. I think I'm quite possibly in shock. Losing Arthur…being accused of murdering him, and then _**you **_showing up…it's a bit much to take in."

"Speaking of being accused of murder, what the devil could they have on you to precipitate that?"

Tears sprang to Della's eyes again. "For starters," she said, voice unsteady, "an earring, muddy shoes, a bloody dress, the dual facts that I had twenty-four hour access to the Gordon estate and don't have a corroborative alibi for my whereabouts last night. But they're being coy about something, something they must believe to be the _piece de resistance_."

"We'll get to the bottom of that soon enough," Perry said grimly. "They can't suppress evidence."

"You'd better leave now." One eyebrow slanted upward. "You do recall the way to the DA's office, don't you?"

Perry circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her to his side in a quick hug, impressed with her sassiness. "You'll be out of here within the hour," he promised.

He hoped he could keep that promise.

* * *

><p>"No comment, no comment, and no comment." Perry announced jovially to the crowd of pestering reporters, settling himself in the driver's seat and starting the engine of the rented convertible. "But…you can quote me on that."<p>

Della resisted the urge to laugh as Perry piloted the car away from the curb in front of the Criminal Courts building fifty-three minutes after promising she would be released within the hour. The reporter's questions had been blessedly general, nothing especially probing, and she was glad for that. What Perry had done would certainly become the talk of the town soon enough.

"That was adroit," she commented, the slightly chilly breeze making her cheeks rosy.

"Like falling off a bike," Perry said almost gleefully.

"Like riding a bike," Della corrected.

"No, I meant to say 'falling', as in as easy as…never mind. Those reporters were cubs, assigned to the court beat to cut their teeth. It was hardly fair."

"They did all seem to be terribly young. Are novice reporters still called 'cubs'?"

"Hell if I know," Perry replied cheerfully.

"Did you really pick me up in a _**white**_ car?"

Perry gave her a sideways glance and a flash of dimples. "Indeed I did, damsel in distress."

Della drummed the fingertips of her left hand on the retractable console arm between them, her mind working feverishly on something to say that wouldn't spark an argument, cognizant of the fact they had already said many things to each other that shouldn't have been said. But this was a new situation entirely, for her, for him, for _**them**_, and the terms of their delicate relationship had already been mightily stretched.

At a stoplight, Perry placed his hand over hers to still the nervous drumming. "Della…" he broke off almost in surprise, lifting her hand and holding it by the fingertips.

Her ring. The vintage amethyst and diamond ring he had bought from a former client's estate sale because she loved it, right about the time they had to cope with the worst nightmare of their life together.

She withdrew her hand as slowly as she could. "It goes with the outfit," she said quietly. It could have gone with the outfit on her right hand, but it felt more natural on her left, where he had placed it…oh, why had she chosen to wear this particular suit today? She could have worn the cranberry suit, which was more flattering, but she hadn't really been thinking this morning at four o'clock when the police rousted her out of bed and she'd needed to dress quickly.

The light turned and traffic picked up speed once again. Perry drove thoughtfully for a few moments before speaking. "Maybe we'd better follow the articles of the contract more closely from here on out," he mused, fishing for a response from her.

The contract.

She couldn't decide if she was relieved or peeved he had brought up the contract first.

Would they ever again have a conversation that wasn't bound by the limitations of that dratted contract? At the time it was drawn up the contract had allowed them to creep tentatively back into friendship; to randomly pick up the telephone and call one another just to say hello; to send each other goofy greeting cards for birthdays; to share their families and the rich history of thirty years together without making anyone too uncomfortable. For two-and-a-half years they had effectively hidden behind whichever article of the contract most closely fit whatever situation they found themselves in, securely bound by rules fueled by alcohol and the peculiar sense of humor they shared.

But was there an applicable article in the blasted contract that would cover the Party of the First Part being accused of murder and the Party of the Second Part resigning his governmental position in order to defend the Party of First Part?

Della slid the amethyst stone of her ring around into her palm and closed her fingers around it, trying to remember when she had begun to wear her rings again, and why.


	2. Chapter 2

TCOT Absurd Assumption – Chapter 2

_The concept of a house had always represented permanence for Perry Mason, a place where one lived when one was married, where one left reluctantly in the morning and returned eagerly to in the evening, where one could truly feel…well, at home._

_When Della announced she wanted to give up her apartment and buy a house, Perry expressed surprise at that throw from left field and jokingly questioned her sanity, but preoccupied with extricating himself from the lease on his apartment, assisting Della in shutting down his practice, acclimating himself to being a judge – a judge! – and searching for a suitable place to live in San Francisco, he hadn't really given it much thought until the Saturday she and her real estate agent friend Loren Glasgow dragged him around suburban Los Angeles in the hunt for a 'perfect little doll house' for Della. Emerging from his self-centered fog as the three of them toured house after house, Perry realized Della was serious about becoming a home-owner, and would, in fact, relinquish her apartment in less than sixty days. He worried that her decision might be rash, an over-reaction to all of the recent changes in her life – in __**their**__ life – but she insisted that she had been thinking about it for over a year, deciding that it was time she began living like an adult. He moped about not having her to himself after two long, lonely weeks in San Francisco, and coming to terms with the fact that she really, truly would not be moving to San Francisco with him. So therefore he kept up a constant stream of complaints and objections to each house the hapless Loren showed them._

_The house Della ultimately bought was the fourth house on the tour, the one Perry knew she would choose the instant they walked in, and the one he couldn't find much to complain about except the closed-off kitchen and outdated, colorful bathrooms. She had sought his hand, and stood in the middle of the spacious living room, stars in her eyes, mentally placing furniture and artwork, atremble with excitement. On the main level there was the living room; a formal dining room with a mantled brick fireplace; a big, bright kitchen with a center island and separate dining area; a den lined with built-in book shelves; a laundry room; and a powder room. Upstairs the master bedroom was large and boasted a walk-in closet as well as a large en suite bathroom; the two guest rooms were adequate – a fourth bedroom having been sacrificed to create the en suite master at some point; and the main bathroom, while severely pink, was roomy and in good shape. _

_Perry could see Della living in this house; could see her puttering in the yard; could see her cooking in the pretty kitchen. What's more, he could see himself living in this house as well, pictures of making love to Della in every room vivid before his eyes. House hunting suddenly became not so much of a chore._

_A thorough shopper, Della insisted that they continue with the house hunting, but after viewing the eighth house, a tiny run-down ranch that Perry instantly and loudly proclaimed unsuitable, had suddenly turned to Loren and requested to be taken back to the big Cape Cod with the pink bathroom. Loren had argued, pointing out it was too large for her, that there was no garage as she had specifically requested, that he had only shown it to her because it was two doors down from the smaller house that suited her needs better but that Perry had objected to strenuously…and then Perry had cleared his throat and the agent's eyes had widened behind his horn-rimmed glasses as it dawned on him why the size of the Cape Cop was actually quite perfect. _

* * *

><p>Perry parked the convertible on the street in front of Della's neat, well-maintained house and drew a deep, satisfying breath. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed the house, missed how it welcomed him, how it suited him. It had become the place he called home after ultimately subletting his own apartment in downtown Los Angeles, the place where he stayed one weekend every month and spent most holidays. His apartment in San Francisco seemed more like a hotel, no matter how nicely Della decorated it to make him comfortable, largely because she wasn't part of the decor.<p>

Della handed Perry the key to the front door, and preceded him into the house. "I need a cup of tea," she announced, tossing the comment over her shoulder as she headed straight for the kitchen. The telephone was ringing, and Perry veered into the den where an office had been set up with a partner's desk and the old couch from his law office. "Would you like a cup?"

Perry unplugged the telephone in the office, and glanced out the window, noting two automobiles parked across the street, drivers hunched down, trying to appear nonchalant. Police detectives or reporters, he figured, closing the wooden shutters, betting himself they were the former rather than the latter. He hadn't been concerned with checking if any cars followed them from downtown because he knew Assistant DA Barbara Scott would probably want to keep an eye on an accused murderer released on a ridiculously low bond by her boss.

"That sounds good," raising his voice so she could hear him. "Unplug the phone in the kitchen. I'll get the phone in the bedroom." He took the stairs two at a time and headed down the hallway to the master bedroom, tacitly ignoring the sights and smells of Della's house. Once the phone on the bedside table, on 'his' side of the bed, had been unplugged, he hastily retreated from what had always been his favorite room.

Perry descended the stairs at a leisurely pace and moved into the living room, settling himself in 'his' chair, one of two identical side chairs he insisted were completely different in comfort level. Della had once switched the chairs and was stunned when he detected her little ruse within seconds of sitting in the other chair. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

"Sit down and loosen your tie," Della called from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a minute."

Perry smiled. He let his eyes wander around the room, reacquainting himself with the layout and furnishings, noting everything was still where he remembered, and that not much new had been added…except one very surprising thing.

A grey and black striped tabby cat stood directly in front of Perry Mason, regarding him with curiosity, green eyes wide, ears pricked forward, whiskers flicking. Perry tentatively reached out his hand and the cat sniffed once, twice, then ducked its head and rubbed against the bent fingers repeatedly. Before Perry knew what was happening, the cat jumped onto the arm of the chair and nudged his shoulder. Unaccustomed to the characteristics of cats, Perry was fascinated by the loud purr emanating from the animal as it nearly turned itself upside down rubbing against him.

"When did you get a cat?" he called to Della.

"Is he here? He usually doesn't stick around when I have visitors. He must like you." She wouldn't tell Perry the cat probably didn't really like him – he was just perturbed someone was sitting in his favorite chair. What was it about that one chair every male in her life found so much more appealing than the other, identical chair?

"We're best buddies already. Is he always this loud?"

Della chuckled, and Perry was pleased at the ease of her laughter after the torrential storm of tears earlier and the uncomfortable drive from downtown. "If he's bothering you, just push him away. Of course, he's a cat, so he'll be bothering you again in exactly ten seconds."

Perry tentatively petted the silky black stripe that ran down the cat's spine. He was rewarded with even louder purring. "He isn't bothering me, but aren't there noise ordinances in this neighborhood?"

Della poked her head around the corner from the kitchen and laughed again. They hadn't managed to take down the wall that would merge the kitchen with the living and dining rooms and he felt closed off from her. "He showed up on my doorstep about a year ago, skinny and starving, but purring just like that. I brought him in to get warm and nursed him back to health. I gave him to the little girl next door, but he wanders over here every once in a while to trip me up. Heather's father put cat doors in both of our houses so he can come and go."

_About a year ago? Why didn't you tell me about the cat, Della?_ "What is his name?" He asked instead, tamping down the surge of hurt that while they had spoken to each other often in the past three years, she hadn't truly let him into her life without him, per the articles of that silly contract. But a cat – a cat she should have told him about. He remembered her wistful reminiscences of the battle-scarred marmalade tomcat she'd called Pretty, her one and only childhood pet, and how she had always made a beeline for any cat within a hundred feet of her. And cats gravitated toward her as well, including several they had come across in murder cases over the years. He knew she would have loved to have a cat of her own, but had always been adamant about not allowing him to get her one because their life, she had firmly reminded him, was lived primarily at the office, with excursions to the courtroom, various crime scenes in and around L.A., the lake house, and nearly every restaurant within a twenty-mile radius of the city. It would have been unfair to the cat to lock it up in her apartment, abandoned for days on end. He smiled, remembering the rare office delight she had treated him to in his desk chair when he suggested they get an office cat, proposing to name it Immaterial. He was happy she finally had gotten her cat – even if only on a part-time basis.

He just wished she had told him about the cat a year ago.

Della advanced toward the chair where Perry was seated with a very contented cat laying on its back in his lap. Her smile was wistful. "Chief," she said tenderly, the sight of the imposing Perry Mason gently petting a purring cat filling her with an emotion she hadn't felt in a very long time and didn't quite recognize.

Perry looked up at her with an equally wistful smile. "You haven't called me that in a long time."

She shook her head, her eyes glistening. "The cat's name is Chief," she clarified softly.

Perry stared at her, pole-axed. Della Street was still the only person on earth who could rob him of words.

"He's loud, overbearing, and devious," Della continued airily, deftly covering his flummoxed silence as well as her own sentimentality. "And he reappears just when I think I've gotten him out of my system."

Lord, that sassiness! He regarded her with narrowed eyes. "In other words, he speaks with authority, knows what he wants, and gets what he wants by cleverly identifying every means to an advantageous end."

She nodded her head briefly. "Exactly. He's loud, overbearing, and devious."

Perry sighed dramatically.

Della smiled triumphantly.

"Didn't you offer me a drink?" His hand stilled its soothing movements and the cat scowled at him, reaching out a paw and hooking its claws on Perry's finger.

"_**Tea**_," she reminded him. "I offered you tea." Slightly hurt by his sudden withdrawal, her smile would have faded had his face not reddened in an effort to keep from bellowing in pain. "A pot is steeping."

"I suppose tea is more proper at one in the afternoon than bourbon." He gently pried the cat's claws from his finger and glared at the animal, who yawned, shook its head, and snorted.

"I don't have any bourbon." For some reason she wanted him to know that.

He stood and faced her, dumping the cat on the ground, angry with himself for not containing the almost confrontational abruptness that was now his conversational habit. "I would lower my standards and drink scotch." _Please give me that dazzling smile again, baby_.

"I remember the first time you said that," she told him, her voice holding the smile he wanted to see.

"Here's another oldie but goodie. We have to talk, Della." How many times over the years had he said those very same words to her?

She hesitated before nodding. "Yes."

"I'm going to ask you a lot of hard questions and you have to answer them, _**every single one of them**_, with complete honesty."

She nodded again. "Yes."

"The news reports are already sensationalizing the case, and once word gets out about my resignation…well, I'm fairly certain reporters will be relentless in dredging up our past and putting it front and center, facts of the case be damned. I'll protect you as much as I can, but it's bound to be rough." He grasped her upper arms almost roughly, to underscore his statement.

"I'm not ashamed of our past." Steadfast and loyal, that was Della Street.

His hands moved from her arms to frame her face, her beautiful, beautiful face. "Our past is my greatest achievement." His thumbs moved across her cheekbones gently, fully aware that by doing so he came perilously close to breaching at least one clause of their tenuous treaty. Her skin was smooth and soft, unlined save for delightful laugh crinkles around her expressive eyes. The last three years had made him feel old and empty and here she was before him as vibrant and lovely as when she'd first entered his office, barely past her teens, poised and capable beyond her years. "You look like a kid."

Della smiled and placed her hands over his, both thrilled and frightened by his words. "Those reading glasses you wear must have rose-colored lenses."

"Della, just accept the compliment. Say 'thank you, Perry."

Her smile trembled slightly. "Thank you, Perry."

"I only speak the truth."

"To me," she whispered, finishing their age-old verbal game.

"And don't you forget it." His thumbs continued their adoration of her cheekbones. "Things are different now."

"Yes," she agreed, unerring as always in picking up the intent of his words. "People are more accepting of…alternate choices. Hardly anyone in Hollywood gets married these days. Turns out we were ahead of our time."

"But that doesn't mean the prosecution and the tabloids won't exploit our past relationship or hypothesize about our present relationship."

"Such as it is."

"Such as it is," he echoed hollowly.

She tilted her head to the left and lifted one eyebrow. "Did I ever tell you that Marvin Mitchelson approached me several times that first year after you moved to San Francisco?"

Perry felt a lightning bolt of raging disbelief tear through him. That sleaze Mitchelson – the king of malpractice, inventor of '_palimony_', an opportunistic, shit-eating toad addicted to the no-holds barred Hollywood lifestyle of excess, indiscriminately pursuing notoriety of any kind at the expense of the actual practice of law – how dare he presume a lady such as Della would entertain… "No," he said calmly. "You didn't. Why bring it up now?"

"I'm being obedient."

Perry had to smile at the notion of Della Street ever being obedient. "I never said 'obedient', Miss Street."

"It was inferred."

"Far from it." His thumbs now caressed dainty ears, fingers splayed around the back of her head reacquainting him to its shape, to the long, slender line of her neck, to the soft tickle of those delightful curls she disdained. He had yearned to be this near to her again, to hold her in his arms and be _**them**_ once more, despite all the obstacles real and/or imagined they'd piled up between them. He was painfully and shamefully aware that with the slightest encouragement he could set aside the past three years and kiss her, but that might be too large a step across the lines she had drawn – and a couple he had drawn himself out of self-preservation. Without inflating his importance above current circumstances he realized that her well-being, possibly her very life, rested in his hands. She needed him, otherwise she wouldn't have called, and she had to know he understood and held that responsibility above all else. "That tea is probably stronger than Superman by now."

Her eyes, which had been soft and shining, clouded over and Perry kicked himself for not leaping those damned obstacles in a single bound and kissing her.

Della ducked away from his embrace with a smooth, lithe movement akin to a curtsy and moved toward the kitchen. "Cup or mug?" she tossed back over her shoulder.

"Mug. And don't muck it up with anything. Tea should be straightforward."

She was back relatively quickly, carrying a tray holding a tea pot, two mugs, and a plate of cookies, approaching him from behind as he stood before the chair he had recently abandoned, contemplating what in hell to do about the cat, locked in a defiant stare-down with brilliant green eyes. Della set the tray on the coffee table.

"Straightforward tea," she announced, smiling despite herself. "He thinks it's his chair. You'll either have to share it, or sit elsewhere."

Perry squinted at the cat, which slowly closed its eyes and began to purr again. "There was a time you had my back," he groused.

Della seated herself on the couch, kicked off her omnipresent pumps, and wriggled her toes. "There was a time I had much more than your back."

Her blasé tone disguised what she had actually said long enough for him to surrender his favored chair and settle into the matching side chair before it registered. _You still have much more than my back_, he thought, not breaking contact with the cat's inscrutable gaze. "Perhaps too much of me?"

Della picked up a mug and held it out toward him. He took it from her, consciously avoiding the handle and her fingertips. How many times had they wound up in bed, in a chair, on his desk, in the back seat of a car, or even on the floor, simply because her fingers brushed his? His palm stung from the heat of the mug and he hastily transferred it to his other hand, holding it properly by the handle. She took a sip from her own mug, hoping he couldn't see how her mouth twitched with yet another smile at his stubbornness. "Maybe." Well, she could be stubborn, too.

He made a grunting noise and the twitch became a full-blown smile. No one made her smile as much as Perry Mason.

"Brat," he said, taking far too large a swallow of tea and forcing the scalding liquid down his throat. Tears of pain pricked at his eyes and he blinked. Thankfully, Della was preoccupied with breaking off a chunk of what looked like a home-made white chocolate macadamia nut cookie and scrutinizing it before deciding not to eat it. Her favorite nut, and his favorite sweet treat, combined into perhaps the world's most perfect cookie.

"I can't believe you resigned." She hadn't dared to hope he would come to LA while placing the phone call to him from jail – she'd simply become desperate to hear his voice and be comforted by whatever lingering affection he might still have for her. Fully expecting his friend and fellow criminal attorney Frank Heartwell to come for her, she had been shocked speechless when it was Perry Mason himself who awaited her; Perry Mason who admitted he was weary of writing opinions as he held her in his protective embrace; Perry Mason who had gone directly to the District Attorney to have her released on bond based on his former reputation; Perry Mason who had badgered police officers to expedite her release as he had that night thirty years ago when she had seen him in action for the first time fighting on behalf of his client. The enormity of what he'd done was bewildering and far beyond her comprehension of what their relationship could possibly be right now.

"Believe it. I'm officially unemployed."

"I am too." She drew in a shaky breath remembering Arthur Gordon and why Perry Mason was in her house at this moment. "Have I got a job for _**you**_."

Perry leaned forward and placed the mug of tea back on the tray. "I accept the job. And _**I've**_ got a job for _**you**_." His eyes sought hers. "I'm a bit rusty. I'll need all the help I can get from the best legal secretary I've ever had."

"I'm so glad you had the good sense not to suggest I sit mildly by and play the uninteresting role of defendant while you attempt to break in a new secretary."

"I believe secretaries prefer to be called administrative assistants these days, do they not?" How many times had his current associates reminded him of that? He was proud of himself for finally remembering.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Mason. Maybe you have managed to remain relevant despite your self-imposed exile in San Francisco."

"Della Katherine." His eyebrows merged above scolding blue eyes.

Della drew her eyebrows together as well, chagrinned for having assaulted not one, but two articles of their agreement. But hadn't he been playing fast and loose with several articles himself? The difference was, she was allowing him to get away with it. "It's at times like this I wish you had a middle name."

"You'll have to curb the sass and sarcasm, my dear, or this definitely won't work."

_Then stop touching me and being so…so…so __**you**_, she wanted to shout at him, confused and hurt, the caress of his deep voice ringing in her ears_. My dear_. "Yes, Mr. Mason," she replied stiffly.

Perry stared at her, his famous stone-face unreadable to her for the first time ever, most likely because he had no idea what he was feeling himself. He was a fool. He might as well have told Della not to breathe. Sassing him was her natural inclination, and for many years he had relied on her wit and intelligence to corral and clarify his own thoughts – had in fact at times craved her verbal challenges above all other vices. Her earlier sassiness had brought warmth to his blood that had been long absent and sorely missed. That very same wit and intelligence had often been his undoing, virtual foreplay he gladly surrendered to, usually in helpless laughter. Nearly everything he had done in the past several hours had broken all their self-imposed rules, and yet he couldn't back down, not when the strength of what they had been could damage the fragility of what they were now and the potential of what they could be again, Lord, and Miss Della Street, willing.

As he continued to stare at her, Della returned his gaze, openly searching for a clue to his thoughts. A slow smile spread across her face. "I would be remiss in my newly acquired duties if I did not remind you that the best secretary you ever had practically invented sass and sarcasm. If you have any hope of recapturing your celebrated form, you may have to deal with a bit of both on occasion or this _**most definitely**_ will not work."

Perry didn't realize he had been holding his breath until it rushed out in a mighty laugh. The cat sprang off the chair at the sound, the likes of which it had never heard before, landing crouched on all fours, claws bared, ears back, eyes wide, whiskers twitching, tail flicking. As usual, the lovely Miss Street had managed to put Perry Mason in his place.


	3. Chapter 3

TCOT Absurd Assumption – C3

"Miss Street, were you involved with Arthur Gordon beyond your capacity as his administrative assistant?"

Della tilted her chin and met his gaze unblinkingly. "No, I was not."

"Oh come now, Miss Street, you have a history of involving yourself personally with your employers. Are you asking us to believe there was absolutely nothing romantic between you and Arthur Gordon at any time during your employment?"

"Objection! Argumentative. Not to mention incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial."

Perry scowled. "I'll rephrase the question. Do you maintain, Miss Street, that there was no romantic involvement between you and Arthur Gordon during your employment?"

"Yes I do, because there wasn't. That question is still irrelevant, by the way."

"Your answers should be responsive to the questions, Della, no embellishment. The DA will instruct as such and the judge will uphold the instruction."

"The embellishment was an aside to my attorney."

Perry ignored her. "How long did you work for Mr. Gordon?"

"Seven years and ten months."

"And during that entire seven years and ten months Mr. Gordon was married?"

"Yes, he was. Which is why I was not romantically involved with him."

"The judge will remind you to confine your answers to the questions as asked, Miss Street. Was the Gordon marriage happy during those seven years and ten months?"

"Objection! Calls for a conclusion by the witness about facts not in evidence, and is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial."

Perry scowled again. "Della, this is as much the discovery phase for me as it is a preparatory exercise for you. You wanted to do this. Stop objecting." What he really meant was, _stop pointing out the inadequacies of my cross-examination techniques._

Della stifled a yawn and rolled her shoulders. She had suggested this exercise in lieu of food and sleep but was beginning to second-guess the decision as the questions became more probing and in her estimation less relevant to the circumstances at hand. "I don't know when you're in discovery mode, when you want an explanation, or when you're bossing me around," she complained. "Besides, the prosecutor won't ask a question like that in court."

"He'll certainly try."

"_**She'll**_ certainly try," she reminded him.

He grimaced. What he'd said about what they were doing being the discovery phase for him was only so much malarkey to disguise a germinating seed of insecurity. This was flat-out a practice round for him. She had caught a mistake a first-year law student wouldn't have made – and it had nothing to do with the correct gender of the prosecuting attorney. "Yes, _**she**_ will. And _**I**_ will object _**then**_."

"Of course you will, Counselor."

_You see right through me, don't you, young lady_? "Well, was the marriage happy?"

Della shook her head. "No, the marriage was not happy. About a year ago Mr. Gordon banished Mrs. Gordon to a penthouse apartment in Century City. She visited the main estate only when decorum dictated."

"Why didn't they divorce?"

"I don't know. Mr. Gordon and I didn't talk about such things."

"Surely there were rumors…"

"Of course there were rumors, most of them started by Mrs. Gordon. She tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to make something of the fact Mr. Gordon escorted me to business functions when she refused to attend and made several ridiculous accusations to my face."

"Any witnesses to those accusations?" Perry actually commiserated with Paula Gordon about that particular aspect of Della's job. To his mind Della attended entirely too many business functions with Arthur Gordon. But then that fact circled directly back to Mrs. Gordon, in effect cancelling out his commiseration.

"Unfortunately, yes. She made another in front of Mr. Gordon's children and the police right before Lt. Cooper began questioning me." Della shifted slightly and cleared her throat. "I don't know if I ever told you this, but she doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like you or she feels threatened by you?"

Della's shoulders lifted upward briefly and her eyes avoided his. "Perhaps both. Mr. Gordon had recently decided to make a few changes. He wanted to remove his wife as Director of the Gordon Foundation and asked if I would consider accepting the position. The official announcement was to be made next week. I believe Mr. Gordon was going to tell Mrs. Gordon yesterday."

"Congratulations, Miss Street, but I don't have to tell you that's not good for our side. It's a reason for Mrs. Gordon to be suspicious of you and her husband." _Because_ y_ou, Miss Street, are the most beautiful, desirable woman God ever created_ _and there is no way Arthur Gordon wouldn't have noticed. It speaks to his good sense that he recognized your business acuity, but a spurned wife wouldn't see it that way. _

"Paula Gordon was suspicious of any woman who came within a mile of her husband. He had gone through five administrative assistants during the first two years of his marriage to her before I was hired, including one who had been with him nearly ten years, and who it was rumored expected to be the next Mrs. Arthur Gordon. I don't know why I lasted as long as I did. Mrs. Gordon always resented the amount of time Mr. Gordon spent at the office, and would often drop by unannounced, impeccably timed for when things were the most hectic. When I was promoted to his Executive Assistant and assumed the duties of Corporate Secretary requiring even more time in closed door meetings with Mr. Gordon, the number of visits increased, as did her insinuations about what she claimed were my ulterior motives. Mr. Gordon and I had an unspoken agreement to ignore her."

"She's Gordon's second wife?"

"Yes. Mr. Gordon's first wife committed suicide when the two older children were barely teenagers."

Perry stared at Della soberly. "You keep referring to him as Mr. Gordon. That isn't what you called him on an everyday basis." She had always referred to her boss as _Arthur_. He knew that because it had always bothered him. What was she doing?

Della flushed immediately. "N-no. I called him Arthur."

"Keep calling him Arthur, unless someone else initiates the conversation and refers to him as Mr. Gordon. Don't try to play down your good working relationship with him. We're going to be above-board about everything." It was two years before she addressed him directly by his first name, the night he told her he loved her. She admitted her continued use of a nickname kept their relationship from being too personal before they were both ready for it to be _**very**_ personal. And she had been right, of course, for the first time she spoke his name specifically for him was one of the most special moments of his life.

She plucked at her wrinkled skirt nervously. "All right."

"Was there a prenuptial agreement?"

"The prevailing rumor is that there was a prenuptial agreement with very specific clauses regarding infidelity and irrevocable forfeiture of community property if at any time Mrs. Gordon was untrue to her husband. It sounds like an agreement Arthur would have insisted on. He would never reward anyone for betraying him."

"Objection! The defendant couldn't possibly know for certain what Arthur Gordon would or would not do in reference to a prenuptial agreement if indeed one was in effect. I'd like to know for sure if there was indeed a prenup." They had never really discussed Arthur Gordon and his family. When they were together there were far more interesting things to discuss.

Della arched an eyebrow at the objection, calling attention to her earlier complaint. He had asked a question and she had answered, so why was he objecting? To keep her on her toes? Or to tick her off? He was certainly doing a bang-up job of the latter. "Arthur was a very difficult man. He was wealthy and powerful and could be ruthless. I'm fairly certain there was a prenuptial agreement to protect what was his."

"All of that is still conjecture and rumor and therefore inadmissible as testimony, but nevertheless something we need to ascertain. You always said you got along with him, but was he ever ruthless with you?"

Della met his eyes frankly, sensing where he was going with this line of questioning. "During the first five years of my employment you and I were still together. You two may not have hit it off the few times you met, but if he had been um…ruthless, I would have told you. Arthur and I became friends. We were fond of one another, and that's all there was to it. He respected my personal life even though he didn't particularly like you, and appreciated what I did for Gordon Industries. I respected his position as my boss, performed my job to the best of my abilities, and he rewarded that performance."

"And the last three years?" His quick mind picked up on the qualifier of '_during the first five years'_ in her statement.

Della hesitated and Perry frowned at her. "He made a pass."

Perry's frown deepened. "What kind of a pass?"

"A very small one. Hardly a pass at all, really."

"Della…"

"I declined and he promised it would never happen again. It never did. No harm done. We remained friends."

"Any witnesses to that small pass?" If Della's assessment of Arthur Gordon was correct, Perry doubted a prenuptial clause stipulating infidelity would have extended to any dalliances on the business magnate's part.

"No."

Perry involuntarily let out a relieved breath then sucked in another. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Because we were no longer together."

Her lack of hesitation in answering caused Perry to hesitate. _Hurt me with the truth, my darling girl, and never comfort me with a lie. _"Tell me now."

"I'd rather not."

_Just as you'd rather not tell me why after twenty-five years suddenly I wasn't what you wanted?_ "And I'd rather not have my winning streak end with my most important case. Where's that obedience now? I need to know everything that could conceivably be spun into a motive."

"An innocent little pass nearly three years ago is hardly a motive for murder. I believe telling you anything more would breach a vital article of our contract."

"And I believe consideration should be given to suspending the contract _in toto_ for the duration of the discovery phase of this case," he argued. "If it was an innocent little pass, why won't you tell me about it?" _That damn contract…_

"Because I'd rather not. " _Suspend the contract?_

Perry stared at her, tight-lipped, eyes blued steel. "Do I have to count to ten?"

Della crossed and uncrossed her legs, folded her arms against her chest, and re-crossed her legs. Her bare foot hung in the air, toes pointed toward the floor in an unconscious ballet pose. She couldn't stand it when he treated her this way, making an issue of their age difference, something that had always concerned him far more than it had ever concerned her – until she had used it as a convenient wedge between them to explain her own admitted confusion about their relationship.

"One," Perry counted off.

Della pushed herself deeper into the couch cushion and met Perry's eyes with the same hard expression pinned on her.

"Two."

Della patted her lips daintily as she pretended to yawn.

"Three. Four. Five."

Della rolled her eyes and Perry almost smiled. Almost.

"Six. Seven. Eight."

"He caught me crying," Della said in a rush, words tumbling over one another. "I was having a bad day and Arthur walked into my office unannounced. He called you several colorfully inventive variations of imbecile, hugged me, and tried to kiss me. I told him no. He was really quite contrite. While he knew I was no longer involved with you, he didn't know I was seeing Bryce Hummel at the time. He apologized and we put it out of our minds." Della was amazed at how naturally that little story rolled off her tongue.

"Did you tell Hummel about it?" _Truth really does hurt, beautiful girl, don't let anyone tell you otherwise_.

Wait a minute. _Why was she crying if she was already dating Bryce Hummel?_

Della hesitated, eyes shifting downward again. "No. No one could seriously consider Bryce a suspect. He and Arthur never met." Poor Bryce. A nice man caught up in a whirlwind he hadn't been prepared for, tumultuous sensations tearing him apart from deeply held convictions, their fervid, emotional dance bewildering to both of them.

"What about Asher Langlois?"

Della rose from the couch and shook out her skirt in a way that still begged impertinence on Perry's part, balancing lingering feelings for not only the current topic of conversation, but for the man directing the conversation as well. "I'm even more uncomfortable discussing Asher than I am with discussing Bryce. It's ridiculous to bring either of them into this. Neither could possibly be involved in Arthur's death."

"I don't care what or who you're uncomfortable discussing and neither will the District Attorney. She might question Langlois and Hummel, and she could attempt to question me, you know that. Tell me about Langlois. Did he and Gordon ever meet?"

She had moved to the window and stood with her back to him, arms tightly wrapped around her middle. "Maybe this isn't going to work after all," she said.

"Maybe," he said sharply, "we should stop commenting on how this isn't going to work and _**make**_ it work."

Della's shoulders slumped visibly. "There was a time…" her voice caught in her throat and she leaned her forehead against the window pane when she realized she was about to say the exact same thing he had already said. _You had my back once_.

"Yes, there was a time, Della. We've already been over that." _Too many times_. "You must realize it's every bit as difficult for me to ask these questions as it is for you to answer them, but I'm asking as your attorney right now. Nothing more, nothing less. Answer me."

Her shoulders straightened. "Let's just say that things progressed too quickly for Bryce and not quickly enough for Asher."

Deciding to ignore the fact she hadn't directly confirmed that Arthur Gordon had met Asher Langlois, which he already knew to be so, Perry pushed himself out of the 'uncomfortable' club chair and went to stand behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. Pummeled within an inch of his life by the truth he had avoided for three years but now needed from her, it was vital he stepped back to regroup. "What say we take a break and have something to eat?"

"No, let's continue until closer to dinner time. How does an _In-n-Out_ burger grab you?"

Perry gently turned her to face him, and what he saw in her eyes now made him think it had been for the best he'd stumbled over one of those hurdles and hadn't kissed her earlier. "I ask the questions around here, young lady."

"Asher asked a question. And I answered. Feel free to draw your own conclusions as to why I didn't call _**him**_ from jail."

"Oh Della," Perry expelled her name on a tormented breath. Her herky-jerky admissions were making it difficult to gather his thoughts before she whacked him with another and scattered them to the four winds again. "You can't do this to me. We can't do this, not now. Let's take a break."

"Make up your mind, Counselor. Do you want complete honesty or do you want me to censor my answers when they might be as difficult as the questions? I could have let the DA bring out that particular tidbit in court…because Mr. Mason, on the face of it, I haven't been such a good girl, and Paula Gordon will tell anyone who will listen what a Jezebel I am."

"I should be able to keep innuendos about your past out of the official record." There was very little he could do to protect her from being publicly humiliated by a falsely grieving widow like Paula Gordon and a salacious media that would pander to the attractive woman's every utterance, but an overreaching, overzealous DA he could smash like a bug. "If they put it on the tee, I'll hit it." Jezebel indeed. Where did she come up with stuff like that?

One expressive eyebrow climbed slowly toward Della's hairline. "Tell me this: can you keep an innuendo named Rodger Eastlund* out of the official record? My relationship with Rodger blasts a neat hole in my contention that I would never involve myself with a married man. Hit that one without shanking it, Mr. Mason."

"Rodger Eastlund was divorced."

"No, Rodger Eastlund was not officially divorced until two days before I ended our relationship. For five months I…how can I phrase this in a ladylike manner..._**carried on**_ with a married man. It might not be such a big deal now, but back then it was. Of course, I was very young and what I did could be chalked up to youthful indiscretion, I suppose." _As well as youthful curiosity…_

"Then it's a good thing your trial will take place in the present and not in the past." What had she said about ending her relationship with Rodger Eastlund all those years ago?_ "I lost a hundred and eighty-five pounds of dead weight." _Who would have thought that dead weight could ever be used to bludgeon her character so many years later? He couldn't inquire about the depth of her relationship with Rodger Eastlund then, having known her only a few months, but she had dropped pointed hints as they progressed toward romance themselves. The first time they made love it had been apparent she wasn't what she'd called an _inexperienced babe_, and that was perfectly all right with him_. _ However, conscious of inevitable comparisons, he had been spurred to new heights of intimacy with Della, but it wasn't his sizeable ego that needed to be assuaged. It was his heart and his mind that propelled the physical prowess that made her beg and scream and weep, the pleasure he gave her possibly his greatest pleasure.

"Don't be naïve, Perry, and don't patronize me. I will be tried by the fundamental morals of my generation. A lady simply didn't do what I did, and you are well aware of that. Not everyone is as broad-minded as you about a lady's past experiences."

"You've never been ashamed of your past. You said so again today." _Of our past_. He had to keep his mind on point. Stirring up the past right now would complicate an already complicated situation. Della knew it, which was why she continued to throw that damn contract in his face. But the thought of her in his arms, calling his name over and over, weeping tears of pure, perfect ecstasy was almost too much to brush aside at the moment. Even in her frumpy, rumpled suit and modest blouse she was enticing in a way he could never quite explain to his satisfaction. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to suspend the contract. Maybe they needed its boundaries to survive what was to come.

"I'm not. I made decisions based on what was right for me and kept to myself." Well, as much as she could, considering Perry's national renown. "But I'm being realistic. As hard as I tried to keep my private life just that, I have provable personal involvements with more than one man to whom I was not married. My moral character will be called into question in a way no man's would be."

_Did you really make your own decisions, Della? Or did you merely go along with __**my**__ decisions because you loved me? _"It takes two to tango."

"Gads, you _**have**_ been writing opinions too long."

"_**Gads**_? I may have been locked up writing opinions, but I know that _**gads **_went out with spats and spit curls." _As well as the concept of a Jezebel…_conversing with Della was a never-ending joy.

Della's laugh bubbled up from her belly, a sound impossible to hear too many times. "What are spats and spit curls?" Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Look them up in the encyclopedia, youngster." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "You are a lady and I'll take on anyone who says differently. "

She smiled. "Aren't you going to ask me the sixty-four thousand dollar question?"

"What question would that be?"

"That question would be '_Miss Street, did you kill Arthur Gordon'_?"

Perry snorted. "Gads no. I _**know**_ the answer to that question."

* * *

><p>Della decided abruptly that she was indeed hungry and that only the aforementioned <em>In-n-Out<em> burger would satisfy that hunger. Deeply overwhelmed by Perry's belief in her innocence, she bustled around the room, gathering their empty mugs and the bit of litter accumulated in the past couple of hours, desperate for an activity to cover how simple faith and a reassuring squeeze had flustered her.

Perry remained standing by the window, silently watching Della. Was there anyone whose every movement was more dance-like and perfect? He thought not. Even when she was agitated, like now, her natural grace guided every movement. Her beauty, which could not be disguised by the shapeless, wrinkled skirt and chaste blouse, was still remarkable and he briefly revisited memories of her through the years, from gamine to gorgeous, and every description in between.

He was still at the window, completely lost to the passage of time, brooding, his mind ping-ponging in several directions toward thoughts that had practically nothing to do with the matter at hand despite his earlier determination, when he realized that Della was standing quietly next to him. She had slipped upstairs and changed into one of those raglan sleeved sweaters she owned in every conceivable color of cashmere, angora, and silk, and a pair of impeccably pressed jeans. The denim clung to her slim hips and outlined her age-defyingly pert derriere and he seriously reconsidered his preference for skirts on her. Della had always worn clothing well, her slender torso and long, elegant limbs making the simplest of garments appear more attractive than they were, and this particular style of sweater suited her like no other. A muse of the very talented dress designer Estelle Luddy for many years, Della often appeared in shows and print ads for her good friend's small but highly regarded boutique and been rewarded with several closets full of spectacular evening gowns as well as classic everyday pieces that to this day she continued to work into her wardrobe. And while he had delighted in filling even more closets with Chanel, Dior, Cassini, Armani, and Valentino, it was Estelle's sense of Della's beauty that pleased him the most and her designs were the ones he remembered best. Estelle's death nearly ten years ago had been the first of several terrible shocks for Della, and Perry noted that a few of her clothing selections since had been…surprising.

She noticed his unsettlingly familiar stare, the one that had always made her feel the way she needed to feel now – cared for, safe, admired…and possibly loved a little. Poised on the brink of what could be her most important case with Perry Mason, in every way possible, she looked up at him, as if those eyes would save her from everything. Everything, that is, but their owner.

His head dipped and he was _**this close**_ to breaking at least two articles of the contract and clearing several hurdles in a series of magnificent leaps when the doorbell rang. Their faces remained tilted toward one another, neither one of them breathing, every trembling cell of their bodies willing the intruder to go away.

But the doorbell rang again, and then again, followed by a forceful pounding that shook pictures on the walls and sent Chief shooting out of the room.

"Della!" A man's voice shouted as fists pounded against the door. "Della, let me in!"

Della jerked her head to the side and stepped back from Perry, flushed and flustered, the lovely, breathless moment shattered. "Asher."

_*Reference my previous story __**New Direction**_


	4. Chapter 4

TCOT Absurd Assumption C4

Perry Mason clamped his lips together into a thin, hard line, took three long strides to the front door, flung it open, and was nearly pummeled in the chest by a slender, distinguished, albeit disheveled man standing on the stoop.

"Del – oh…who are **_you_**?" Blue eyes blinked rapidly in surprise behind tortoiseshell glasses.

Perry extended his hand, which the man did not take, and used the awkward moment to quickly size up the man who had intrigued Della enough for her to…well, he couldn't allow himself to think exactly how intrigued Della had been. Asher Langlois was probably five or six years younger than himself, a few inches shorter, and a quite a few pounds lighter, the epitome of a gentleman from the top of his thinning, faded sandy hair to the tips of his impeccable oxblood Florsheim wing-tipped shoes. Pounding on a door and shouting was something a man like Asher Langlois would rarely do unless very, very provoked or very, very worried. "Perry Mason. And you are Asher Langlois."

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage…**_there_** you are!" Asher Langlois pushed the big attorney's hand out of the way and charged into the house, grabbing Della in a relieved hug. "I was so worried when you didn't answer your telephone, Del."

Perry took two steps back from the embracing couple, unable to look away.

So.

This was Asher Langlois.

* * *

><p>"I really appreciate that you came to see me, Ash," Della said quietly, idly stirring elbow macaroni in a large Farberware saucepan. "I – I need all the friends I can get right now."<p>

Following what at best were awkward introductions and Perry's hasty exit to get hamburgers, Della led Asher into the kitchen where she busied herself making a pasta salad. She needed something to do, and it was the first thing that popped into her mind. Perry liked pasta salad made with mayonnaise and mustard.

The surprised expression on his face at finding Della with a man had been replaced with a fractious wariness once that man excused himself and he was left alone with her. Asher pulled out a stool and seated himself at the island, leaning heavily on his elbows, watching her while she efficiently chopped a few vegetables. "I doubt I'll ever be the kind of friend that guy," he paused and nodded his head toward the front door Perry had exited through, "is to you. He's the one, isn't he? The long-term relationship – the man you wouldn't tell me about?"

Della took a deep breath, let it out slowly, hoping it would calm her nerves. "He's my attorney." No, she couldn't hedge the truth. "I – I worked for him. He's very good." Well, maybe a little hedging.

Asher continued to watch Della, brow furrowed. He shouldn't make this visit about Perry Mason. He should be supportive of Della and her plight, not confrontational and jealous. "Perry Mason, hmmm. Now that I think about it, I seem to remember reading something years ago when I was working with the lumber coalition against the Save the Redwoods League…good God, there was a secretary…he fooled around with her for years. **_You're_** the secretary?"

"I didn't fool around with him," she replied, her voice coated with frost, defending the choices she had made all those years ago for the first time of what she imagined would be many times between now and her preliminary hearing. "We were…together…for twenty-seven years. The last three years we've mostly been…apart. He's been in San Francisco sitting on the Appellate Court."

"Twenty-seven years! And you never married him?" When she said she'd been in a _'long term relationship'_ and left it at that he'd thought three years, five at the outside. More than twenty-five years with a romantic partner was a span of time he had only begun to imagine when he met Miss Della Street.

"You know I didn't."

Asher regarded her with startled eyes as he comprehended what she'd just admitted. "It's not just me?"

She shook her head slowly. "I couldn't marry him and I can't marry you. No matter how much I loved him, no matter how much..." She leaned over the island and laid her hand on his arm.

He jerked away from her. "You can't even say it now when it doesn't mean anything, can you?"

"Asher, I..." but she couldn't say it, and it mortified her. There were myriad complicated reasons why she had never married Perry, but there was only one uncomplicated reason why she couldn't marry Asher.

"I thought not." His lips were pressed together in a tight, angry line, furious at himself for steering the conversation in this direction but unable to turn the wheel in the opposite direction. "What's going on here? Why didn't you tell me you were the mistress of the great Perry Mason?"

"Nothing is going on. He's here because…because he's the best criminal attorney in the country and he…he insisted that I have the best. He resigned from the Court to be my attorney, Ash." She stirred the pasta again, back stiff and straight. "I wasn't his mistress. He was unmarried. **_We_** were unmarried. Two unmarried adults in a serious, **_private_** relationship. Much the same as you and I."

If he wasn't already seated Asher's legs would have collapsed beneath him. Skipping out on yet another rally and flying in from Texas wasn't nearly as dramatic as resigning from a highly prestigious governmental position. How could he compete with something like that? "I guess mistress is an outdated word. But as you so often pointed out, I am outdated. I come from a time when if a man and a woman loved each other they got married – they didn't flaunt their affairs."

Della couldn't hold back a wistful smile. "I assure you that Perry doesn't flaunt," she said, a memory from long ago suddenly bright with affection. She turned off the flame, lifted the pan from the burner and in one swift, efficient movement dumped the macaroni into a metal colander to drain. "I come from that same time, Ash."

Asher's head jerked up. The vivid emotion in her voice was like nothing he had ever heard before. He should be ashamed that she felt compelled to defend herself to him when he had shown up with every intention of supporting her, but it hurt too damn much to realize he had been in love alone, and he discovered that as much as she needed him to live up to his declared feelings for her, he needed to excoriate her furtiveness in order to accept that realization even more. "Why didn't you tell me who it was you had been involved with? Didn't you think I deserved to know?"

Della ran cool water over the steaming pasta and tossed it in the colander before setting the metal sieve in the sink once more and skirting the island to take a seat next to Asher. She placed her hand on his leg. "Part of what attracted me to you was that you weren't from California and you didn't know who I was, and didn't pry into my past. I liked that very much. Twenty-seven years was a lot of life to walk away from, Ash. I didn't want to talk about it. I had to protect myself."

"If it was so horrible, why did you let it go on for so long?" _Aside from the fact he must have been even more handsome than he is now, _Asher added to himself dolefully, _and probably wealthy._ Della was by no means shallow, but she was a woman and the man definitely was dashing. Confident. Imposing. Successful. Famous. He did a quick calculation. Thirty years. Della couldn't have been much more than twenty-one or twenty-two when she first met him. Heady stuff for an impressionable young woman, he imagined, grudgingly giving Mason his props for having the good sense to hire Della, and even better sense to make her his own.

Della placed a fingertip to the corner of her eye, pressing to stem threatening tears. "Oh Ash, it wasn't horrible. Every woman should have twenty-seven such years."

Asher grabbed the hand that rested on his leg and held it between both of his. "I don't understand, Della."

Asher felt her withdraw, and knew that whatever pain had caused her to leave this Perry Mason fellow was still very real and raw, obviously difficult to hide from as she wished. "We made mistakes," she said quietly. "We hurt each other and couldn't be together anymore."

Asher wanted to ask her what had happened, but decided she wouldn't give him a satisfactory answer because he suspected there wasn't one. Perry Mason wouldn't be here now, in her house, obviously King of the manor if either of them knew exactly why they weren't still together.

It was a crushing blow to his meager hopes of somehow rekindling their romance that his love for her fell short of what she shared with the man who would defend her. If he had seen it sooner he never would have gotten down on one knee and offered her the singularly unremarkable ring from a chain jewelry store and promised her a life of nomadic instability. No, he would have merely loved her and been with her when he could, as she had been content with, as this Mason fellow had been smart enough to do.

But even the great attorney hadn't been able to keep her…

"Della," he said as the buoyant thought sputtered to life. "Della, is it too late for us? If we forget I ever proposed and I promise never to propose again…"

Her soft chuckle cut off his words and hope simultaneously. "I'm sorry, Ash," she said gently. "I've been able to manage the memories, but I can't forget, and that's not fair to you. I can't change who I am. I was selfish and I – I needed you. You made me feel better and I so desperately wanted to feel better. You are a good man, Asher, and if my life had been different …if **_I _**was different – "

"I made you **_feel _**_**better**_?" Asher shouted, jumping to his feet and walking several paces away before facing her again. "I made you **_feel better_** that you weren't with the man who obviously broke your heart?"

"I broke his heart too," she whispered, barely audible. _And I broke yours…_

Asher tasted bitterness in his mouth. "So that made it okay for you to break mine? Tell me Della, how elite is this club Mason and I belong to? Exactly how many hearts have you broken, sweetheart? Are there notches on your bedpost I can count?"

"You have every right to be angry with me," Della began, but the expression on his face told her **_she_** had said the wrong thing this time.

"Every right to be angry?" Asher fumed, backing away a few more steps. "Stop rationalizing this, Della. There is nothing **_rational _**or **_manageable_** about love. I loved you and I thought, irrationally, that if I said it enough you would someday say it back to me. Little did I know…how do you feel now, Della?"

The abrupt question surprised her. "Awful," she admitted, knowing it was an appropriate yet unsatisfying response. "I was selfish and I'm sorry."

The least selfish person he had ever known thought she was selfish. What a cad he was. He sagged against the door jamb. "You weren't selfish…"

"I should have told you about Perry..."

"Yes, you should have. Or I should have insisted that you tell me, but I was too happy to consider you had a life before me.

A single tear rolled slowly down Della's cheek. "It wasn't you, Ash. It was me."

"Don't kid yourself, Del. It was **_him_**. He was there all the time, right between us, only I had no idea he was there. Were you ever going to tell me? Was there anything I could ever have done to make you forget him?"

"I don't know," she admitted reluctantly, to both questions, her voice low and achingly hollow. "I tried. Please believe me, Ash, I tried. But when you gave me that ultimatum...how could I marry you if I had never married Perry?"

"It's **_still_** him."

Another tear slipped down her cheek at the dullness in Asher's voice. "I tried. I really tried…"

"Can't live with him, can't live without him, is that it?" Asher hated seeing her in such misery, hated trying to force an admission out of her she refused to recognize herself.

Della sniffed. "I need him now, Ash. Perhaps more than I ever have. I didn't kill Arthur, but they have so much circumstantial evidence against me…"

She smiled the saddest smile Asher had ever seen and his affection for her resurfaced in an instant. Hell. Talk about selfish. Why was he arguing with her about things she shouldn't have to worry about right now when she had to be scared and confused? Despite a bit of self-loathing, Asher pressed on, curiosity stronger than restraint. Maybe she would tell him now. "What went wrong, Della, with Mason?"

She looked at him with those beautiful, wide eyes filled with tears. "I behaved horribly and forced him to look elsewhere for companionship."

Asher regarded her in silence for a moment. "You didn't want the relationship to end, did you?"

"No. But it had to."

"What do you mean, it had to? Because you couldn't forgive him?"

Della shook her head. "No…there were…extenuating circumstances."

"You're not going to tell me any more about it, are you?"

Della shook her head again. She had told him enough. The whole story was just too long and too sad.

Asher gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Sweetheart, you may think you ended the relationship, but you two are still very much together. After only three minutes of observation I knew I was sunk."

Della gave him a genuinely bewildered look. "We've spoken a few times, but I haven't seen him since I met you."

He laughed again, the same melancholy laugh, and took one of her hands in both of his. "That doesn't mean a damn thing."

Della brought her other hand to his cheek. "I wish things could have been different for us, Ash," she said softly.

By not giving direct answers she told him everything he suspected. "I know, I know. I'm a nice guy. But you know what they say about nice guys."

She leaned forward and gave him a gentle, consoling kiss, lips cool and friendly. "You didn't finish last. Not by a mile."

"What do we do now, Della? I'm going to love you for a long, long time."

"Please don't be insulted, but do you think someday you'll be able to forgive me so we can be friends?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. I'm afraid at my age I don't bounce back like I used to." _Who am I kidding?_ _I will do anything for you, no matter how much you've hurt me. Just as I suspect that big lawyer will do anything for you as well no matter how much you hurt him – look what he's already done for you._ "We can start by meeting for lunch. And I might not object to a Christmas card. Just don't sign **_his_** name."

She kissed him again and to Asher it was perfectly clear the affection she held for him had been forever altered by Arthur Gordon's murder and the return of Perry Mason. "I'll send you a birthday card, too," she said softly.

Asher stood and pulled her to her feet along with him. He drew her close and held her longer than he sensed she was comfortable with, but not nearly as long as he wanted. "It kills me to tell you this, but from one friend to another – you may think what you had is broken, but it's begging to be fixed."

"I need him right now," she repeated. "I'm looking forward to working with him again despite the fact I'm the defendant, but it could be he's doing this out of a maddening sense of obligation I battled for all of those twenty-seven years, and once I'm acquitted he may just go back to San Francisco." To a life that didn't include her and might never include her again.

Asher kissed her nose and chucked her under the chin. He hadn't missed her almost nonchalant '_once I'm acquitted'_. Not _'if I'm acquitted'_, but _once I'm acquitted'_, because Perry Mason would get her acquitted, that's what he did. No matter what the evidence indicated, Asher knew Della wasn't capable of killing anyone, especially not Arthur Gordon, a man for whom she had great respect and admiration. And truth be told, he was glad the most famous criminal attorney in the country had such a stake in her acquittal so he wouldn't worry as much about her as he might have. "Something tells me you've always needed him. Maybe it's time to finally forget the unforgettable, Del."

"I'm like an elephant, you know that. I never forget."

"Are you going to be all right? "

Della smiled. "I'm going to be all right. Perry takes very good care of his clients."

"Can you be just his client?"

"That's all I am, Ash."

Asher pulled her to him in a quicker hug than previously. "I beg to differ on that. Will you stand in the doorway and sadly wave goodbye while I drive away?"

Della actually laughed. "I don't dare. There are cops and reporters parked out there watching my every move. It's bad enough that Perry has been here for…" realizing what she was saying, Della stopped talking and gave Asher Langlois a stricken look. "I'm sorry, Ash. Of course I'll wave goodbye to you."

"No, don't," Asher told her heavily. "I understand."

He did understand. He didn't like it, but he did understand.


	5. Chapter 5

_Note: After a couple of 'filler' chapters, here is where something familiar comes in: the meal at Della's house._

_I don't like this scene. _

_There is no way someone tasked with framing a murder on someone would use a flipping garden trowel to jimmy a window that had been painted shut. Especially a window that opens outward. And if the windows were painted shut, wouldn't that have been apparent when they were opened - because they are open in this scene. _

_Another thing that bothers me about the scene is the 'as always this is terrible' and the reply 'as always you flatter me'. Good grief...every time I watch the movie I want to throw something at the TV. _

_~ D _

TCOT Absurd Assumption C5

Perry Mason was leaning against the rental car, ankles crossed, one hand stuffed into his trouser pocket, smoking a cigarette when Asher Langlois finally emerged from Della's house. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his foot on the curb before resuming his carefully crafted posture of disinterest.

"Back already or haven't left yet, Mason?" Asher came to a stop two feet in front of the attorney who could easily be mistaken for a former football linebacker, physique and demeanor impressively intimidating for a man his age – hell, for a man of any age. He shoved his hands into his own trouser pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels.

"I've been back for a few minutes. I didn't want to interrupt."

"That was noble and self-sacrificing of you."

"Look Langlois, the last thing we need to do is engage in petty antagonism. That won't do anyone any good."

"Are you speaking as Della's attorney or from your personal relationship with her?"

"Let's get something straight, Langlois. I don't play games, especially when I'm defending someone accused of murder, so if you can't be a grown up, then just move along before I punch you in the nose." Punching Asher Langlois would not be antagonistic. It would be justified. Justified by the churning jealousy within him.

Asher regarded Perry Mason with a bemused smile. "Punch me in the nose? Grow up yourself, tough guy. I assure you I'm being as grown up as I can at this particular moment. Considering I've known Della **_very well_** for nearly two years and I didn't know who you were until right now, I think a little antagonism on my part is justified, don't you?"

"Not when Della needs her friends to be focused on her wellbeing I don't."

Asher's smile widened snarkily. His affection for Della would be eternal, and he would remain her friend as she asked, but he didn't have to like or be friendly with her vaunted and daunting knight in shining armor who had smote him with next to no effort. "So I take it Della has filled you in on the status of our dearly departed relationship?"

"She said you asked a question she couldn't answer to your satisfaction. I ran with it."

"Well put, Mason, well put. I understand you asked the same question and received a similar reply." _Tit for tat you oversized, arrogant, s.o.b._

"I could very easily knock you into next Thursday, Langlois, but I won't, because I'll tell you again it's not about you or me right now. Everything is about Della. Why don't you jump in your car and tootle on home."

"Does Della know you threaten to hit her former lovers?"

Perry Mason smiled suddenly, boyishly, and with much amusement. "I daresay Della knows all about that particular proclivity."

Asher narrowed his eyes, uncertain whether or not to take the attorney's threats or his amusement seriously. "I didn't mention this to Della, but an Assistant District Attorney named Barbara Scott tracked me down in Texas and asked very officiously if I would talk to her about Della. I thought you might be interested in what I'm going to say when I meet with her tomorrow morning."

Perry had turned to reach into the convertible for the _In-n-Out_ bag that contained the burgers Della craved. He straightened and slowly faced the former lover of his former lover, bag in hand. Barbara Scott worked quickly. "You'll tell me the same thing you tell the DA when I question you – if I question you."

"Won't it be awkward for you to question me?"

It took all of Perry's strength not to flinch. "Since the DA has chosen to question you I might have no choice but to question you as well. And if I do, it will be strictly as Della's attorney. I can assure you that my demeanor will be professional, my questions germane to the case. If you can't separate what I do from who I am then you're not only a fool, but a damned useless fool. Get the hell out of my way. Della's food is getting cold."

Asher Langlois obediently stepped aside as Perry Mason stalked past him, footsteps heavy and determined against the pavers of the walkway that led to Della's front door. He imagined the experience of facing the attorney on the witness stand would be like dental work without nitrous oxide. "Mason!"

Perry halted with one foot on the small slab of concrete that was Della's abbreviated stoop but didn't turn around to respond. "Make it snappy."

"Della says you're the best. You'd better be."

Perry turned then, slowly, not just his head, but his entire body. He stood as straight and tall as he could in the face of Asher Langlois' open threat. "I am."

Asher Langlois nodded his head in satisfaction, although thoroughly intimidated, before heading toward the street where his car was parked. He had formed an instant dislike for Perry Mason, but he knew without a doubt that Della couldn't be in better hands. Damn the lawyer's smug confidence.

* * *

><p>"Iced tea or lemonade?" Della called from the kitchen when Perry entered the house and closed the door behind him, thoughtfully replaying bits of the scene with Asher Langlois in his mind. The man carried buckets of bitterness on a yoke over his shoulders, but the lawyer commiserated with him, empathized with the desolation he must be feeling over losing Della.<p>

"Bourbon." He moved through the living room to the cheerful kitchen where Della was setting woven placemats and old green Fiestaware plates on the oak pedestal table in what was technically the breakfast nook.

"Unless you stopped at a liquor store, the choices are iced tea or lemonade." She folded thick paper napkins and tucked them beneath the edge of each plate before looking up at him with one raised eyebrow. "Would you grab silverware?"

"We're having hamburgers and fries, darling, we don't need…" his voice trailed off as her expression became decidedly clouded. "What?"

"Hamburgers and fries **_who_**?"

"**_You_** who. What are you talking about?" He unerringly reached for the silverware drawer and withdrew two forks and two knives.

She pursed her lips and gave him an odd, searching look. He had no idea what he had just called her. "Nothing."

Della crossed to the refrigerator while Perry pulled food from the bulging bag and placed paper wrapped burgers on the plates, then dumped piles of fries next to them. Della came up behind him and plunked a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of ketchup in the middle of the oak pedestal table as Perry pulled out one of the Windsor chairs for her before circling the table and taking the chair opposite. He immediately grabbed the jar of mayonnaise and unscrewed the lid, before she realized her breach in the hard and fast no-condiments-on-the-table rule.

"I will never understand dipping fries in mayonnaise," she commented with what she hoped was an airy lilt, as she poured an alarming amount of ketchup over her fries.

"That's because I truly like fries and wish to **_enhance _**the flavor, not ruin it." He dragged one long fry through a glob of mayonnaise and smacked his lips. The condiment bottles on the table and her lack of concern unnerved him. And it unnerved him that he was unnerved.

"Fries were invented specifically as a vehicle to deliver ketchup. Everybody knows that." She removed the top bun of her burger and gave a satisfied cluck to discover the proper proportion of mustard, onion, and pickles.

Perry glanced at her surreptitiously as she examined her food prior to taking her first bite, one hand positioned to quickly remove the mayonnaise jar from the table if need be. He never tired of watching her eat. She did everything with efficient grace, and eating was no exception, but it was the giddy enjoyment she derived from food that tickled him. Food was just another adventure to her and one of Perry's favorite things had been to surprise her with new recipes with unusual ingredients whenever he had time to cook. She liked every conceivable part of a cow, from burger to filet mignon, and had once gamely eaten a beef tongue that had made him gag.

"Is the burger everything you'd hoped it would be?" He scooped a healthy serving of Della's macaroni salad onto his plate, his pleasure almost child-like that she had taken the time to make one of his favorite things in the world to eat. And relieved that she wasn't commenting on the double dose of mayonnaise.

"Was your talk with Asher everything you'd hoped it would be?" Della countered, taking a bite of her burger. She had peeked out the window at the two men, observing in both coiled up antagonism as they metaphorically circled one another to gain the advantage.

"I'll remind you again, young lady, that I ask the questions around here." He shoveled macaroni into his mouth. "I've always hated this. It's terrible. I have to keep eating it because I can't believe how terrible it is."

Della concentrated on chewing so she wouldn't smile. "We don't hate macaroni salad, Perry. It's not the New York Yankees." She did smile as Perry nearly spit macaroni over the table suppressing a laugh. "What did you and Asher talk about?" _Besides me_.

"Asher's been asked to come in for questioning by the DA. He wanted to know if I would like a preview of what he intended to tell Barbara Scott."

"It's starting already." Dismay forced her to put the half-eaten burger down. It had been a good decision not to stand waving goodbye in the doorway as Asher had wanted. She picked up the ketchup bottle and slowly replaced the cap before leaning over and placing it on the empty chair beside her. Off the table but close at hand.

Perry very deliberately put down his fork and rested his hand protectively next to the mayonnaise jar. "I'm afraid so. This DA is a go-getter. She's compiling your life's narrative before we've even hired a detective."

"That's not entirely true. There's Paul."

Perry's face brightened momentarily with an indulgently pleased smile before becoming stern and stony. "How is the son of our favorite detective? I haven't seen him since…well, that Fourth of July you dragged him to San Francisco because you didn't feel like having a direct conversation with me." Two weeks later he found out why.

"He's getting his feet underneath him," Della replied a tad evasively, choosing to ignore the blatant accusation, as well as the mayonnaise jar he was practically hugging. "The PI business is a lot different than when his father ran the agency."

"A lot of things are different than when his father ran the agency. I would have expected the boy to move out of that rundown building Paul moved into after I closed my practice."

"It's an urban rehabilitation building," Della reminded him for the hundredth time. "I like it. The high ceilings, big windows, wood paneling, the heavy doors with the original frosted glass…"

Perry impatiently waved aside the description. "I don't care about all that. Does it have a phone and electricity?"

_It does if Paul paid the bills._ She crossed the fingers of one hand beneath the table. "Of course."

"How about a desk?"

"Certainly there's a desk. Paul's desk."

Perry snorted and '_harrumphed_' simultaneously, recalling the furnishings, or lack thereof, in the boy's apartment. "A folding card table is not a desk. I can't get my legs underneath one of those things. Remember when he had us over for dinner? We had to eat standing up."

"Paul Senior's desk," Della said softly.

The hard lines of Perry's face softened to match Della's voice. "Oh."

"I had it removed from storage along with a table, a few chairs and some artwork a few months ago." She took another bite of her burger then put it down again and daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Would you do me a favor?"

"What kind of favor?" he responded warily, tapping his index finger against the iconic blue ribbon of the Best Foods label. Their history of favor requests was long and bumpy.

"I'd like you not to purposely antagonize Paul."

"What do you mean? I don't antagonize Paul. Quite the contrary. The boy antagonizes me."

"That's antagonistic."

"What is?"

"Calling Paul a boy. He's young, but he's not a child. And he only antagonizes you because you pick on him."

"I do not pick on him. I pick on what he does."

Della let out a sigh. "He thinks you don't like him, Perry." She might scream if he continued to deflect her concerns with petty distinctions.

Perry frowned, deep furrows crossing his forehead. "Of course I like the b…**_Paul_**. He's my best friend's son. I helped raise him."

"When was the last time you complimented him or told him that you're proud of him?" _And while we're on this subject, when was the last time you told the boy you loved him? _

Perry shifted slightly in the chair, trying not to appear uncomfortable with her question. "We…we haven't talked much. Not since…"

Della pushed her plate away, and leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on clasped hands. One eyebrow crept upward slowly with each passing second Perry didn't finish his thought. "Since when?" she finally asked, resisting the urge to yank the mayonnaise jar away from him.

"You know very well since when."

"I might." She did.

"If Paul is the investigator you want, I'll consider hiring him."

"We don't have a lot of time to search for an investigator. Paul will be fine. You'll see."

Perry studied her from across the table and she stared right back at him, for the first time in a long time. "All right. We'll call him when we're finished eating."

"Actually, I tried to call him already."

"You did? When?"

"They allowed me to make two phone calls in jail this morning. The matron remembered me from when we still worked together and she bent the rules a bit."

"You said 'tried' to call him."

"He didn't answer."

"I don't know why he didn't show up at the jail the instant he heard about what happened," Perry said musingly. "Or why he's not here right now."

Della shifted in her chair, suddenly ill at ease. "He's probably been trying to call, but you unplugged the phones," she reminded him.

"The boy knows where you live, Della." And not merely because he'd lived in the guest room for six months after his father died.

"It's been hours since I called him. He's probably heard what you did and is waiting by the telephone for one of us to call."

"Then that's what we'll do. Finish your burger. We have a lot of work ahead of us. Murder cases don't solve themselves." Why was she handing him excuses for Paul's absence? He wanted a cigarette badly. Having quit then started again only made his cravings that much more difficult to ignore when things began to bother him. And he had been bothered by a lot of things in the past three years.

Della's eyes dropped to her plate. "I'm finished. I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought."

The quiet tiredness in her voice and uncharacteristic lack of appetite brought him out of his chair and next to her with an almost youthful sprightliness. "I'm sorry, Della. I forgot what a tough time you've had. Take a bath and go to bed. I'll go to a hotel…"

"No!" She pushed back the chair and stood unsteadily, fatigue and stress overcoming her in suffocating waves. "I mean, please…stay. I-I d-don't think I c-can…please don't go."

Perry Mason had never, not once in thirty years, denied Della what she wanted. He couldn't break with tradition now, not when he knew the toll it was taking on her to admit she needed him. "All right. I'll stay. I can work in the den so I won't disturb you."

The tenderness in his voice buckled her knees, and Della collapsed against his broad chest. As his arms slid around her gently, weariness and fear were replaced with rock-solid knowledge that this man would not abandon her if he said he wouldn't – that is, unless she pushed him very, very hard.

Perry propelled her toward the stairs, his hand a dear old friend on the small of her back. "Can you make it up by yourself?"

She turned then, and buried her face in his shirtfront, small hands gripping the lapels of his suit coat so hard her knuckles went white. "Thank you. You didn't have to come…you don't have to – to do this for me."

Perry stroked her curls as he nestled her slenderness against him. Della was still the only woman who fit so perfectly in his arms. "Yes, I did. Yes, I do."


	6. Chapter 6

_Note: Bear with me, folks. We'll return to the familiar (sort of) soon. We need to see what Perry has been up to in San Francisco first, since we've just been introduced to Asher._

_Thank you for reading and commenting. It means the world to me because I probably take fan fiction a little too seriously, but it sure is a blast to write. ~ D_

* * *

><p>TCOT Absurd Assumption C6<p>

Perry watched Della climb the stairs with the poise and grace that had captured his heart instantly thirty years ago, and only when he heard the door to the bedroom close did he return to the kitchen. He hastily cleaned up their meal, pausing to feed a bit of Della's unfinished burger to Chief, who pushed his way through the cat door and meowed loudly with what Perry could only assume was utter starvation by the way the cat frantically clawed at his pant leg. He then wrapped the remainder of the meat patty in foil for later, since it appeared the cat had no intention of leaving. It followed Perry around, snaking its long, slender body (he had always thought Della resembled a cat in that way) around and between his ankles, purring louder seemingly by the second.

He was grateful for the task of cleaning the kitchen as well as for the distracting antics of the cat, so he wouldn't think too much about what was taking place upstairs. Della would be in the bath by now, hair held back from her face with an ancient green headband atop which a blue butterfly had once landed and enchanted him as in a fairy tale. She would recline, her neck supported by a rolled up towel, and she would close her eyes with a long sigh of contentment. In that other time they kept referring to, a.k.a. 'when they were together', he would have brought her a glass of wine and sat on the vanity stool, talking to her about everything or merely nothing, watching as the fragrant, steaming water breathed new life into her incredible body. Showers were fine as far as they went, Della claimed, but nothing cured what ailed you like a good, long, hot bath. Wherever she lived she made certain that the bathroom contained as large a cast iron claw foot tub as possible, and Perry had always meant to put one in his apartment for her, but as with tearing down the wall that separated the kitchen from the living and dining rooms in this house, he had never gotten around to it. And Della, trusting in his insistence that he would do it, had never gone ahead and done it herself.

Regrets were beginning to choke him.

He had tried to live his life with as few regrets as possible, making a pact with himself that a few regrettable circumstances prior to meeting Della would not color his life with her, even though they most assuredly had. And in his attempt not to regret anything in regard to Della all he had managed to do was rack up an alarming number of scenes that plagued him day and night, and colored his life without her.

The kitchen tidied, and Della safely upstairs out of earshot, he decided to do something that was sure to be the very definition of regrettable.

It was time to make a phone call to San Francisco.

If anyone asked, he could honestly say he felt deep affection for Robin 'Bird' Calhoun, Emmy award-winning actress and owner of the apartment building in which he lived, and enough of an attraction to allow for a close relationship with her that the tabloids had begun categorizing as 'long-term' after barely six months. What the tabloids didn't know was that while he was assuredly a physical presence in Robin's life, his emotional center remained untouched by the actress, no matter how hard she tried to grab hold of it. When she'd made it clear she desired him, Perry had warned her that he wasn't sure he wanted to be in a relationship, let alone an exclusive relationship, and he couldn't love her how she wanted or needed, something she seemed to have forgotten – or chose to ignore. He didn't regret deciding to avail himself of Robin's willingness, but he did regret that perhaps he hadn't made the situation perfectly clear to her; because he _**didn't**_ love her the way she wanted, and the relationship hadn't been exclusive, at least not in the beginning, when pain and guilt nearly drove him mad.

But Robin was there, next door to him in San Francisco, a part of his life he couldn't ignore even if the intimate aspect of their relationship was to his mind, extemporaneous. He had left a note for her, but she deserved an explanation directly from him, especially since he knew she would have heard more about his resignation and Della's arrest than he put in the note.

Perry almost hoped she wouldn't answer as the phone rang once, twice, three times, but on the fourth ring she picked up. He drew in a deep breath. "Hi, Bird."

"Hello."

The vocal inflections in that one word told him this call was not merely a bad idea, but a supremely bad idea. "I take it you've read my note. Have you seen the newspapers?"

"I read your note. I watched the television news after reporters started calling. That was a thrilling way to find out what had been happening in the world while I slept. You could have woken me up." Robin kept late hours and habitually slept until after ten a.m.

Of course a well-known television actress would be hounded by the tabloids, a reality of Robin's life she strove to maintain. "There wasn't time. I had to make a snap decision, Bird. I'm not a judge. I'm a criminal attorney. It's what I've always done and I miss it." _And I miss Della, _he added silently, _and we've both been regrettably aware of that from the beginning. _

"Don't give me that. Della called and you couldn't get to her side fast enough."

"Bird, she's accused of murdering a man. She needs me."

"I need you too, Perry." Robin inhaled from a cigarette and exhaled directly into the phone. "Is she innocent?"

"Of course she is! But she still needs a good attorney."

"There are plenty of good attorneys in the state, Perry. You could hire one for her and she'll be okay if she really is innocent. Just admit you saw an opportunity to be with her and jumped all over it."

Perry rubbed his free hand over his face tiredly. He'd thought being honest with Robin about his self-imposed romantic limitations would absolve him from guilt and regret when their relationship ended – and he'd known it would end eventually – but such wasn't the case. "I have to do this. It's already done." She wouldn't appreciate his reasoning that he had grown tired of writing opinions as Della had, so he kept that particular gem to himself.

Something Della said years ago played at his mind and made him grimace. _"You're a cross between a saint and a devil." _He had given her a flip reply, something along the lines of _"All men are."_ At this moment he clearly saw her point – to Della he was a saint for rushing to her side when she needed him, and to Robin he was a devil for rushing to Della's side when she needed him; damned if he did by one woman, and damned if he didn't by himself.

Robin was silent on the other end of the line, save for the occasional intake of air as she sucked on a cigarette. He knew she had likely been chain-smoking, and more than likely drinking. "Tell me, Perry, if you had extended me the courtesy of talking about this before you ran back to Miss Perfect would you have listened to anything I said?"

"Being a judge wasn't something I ever aspired to," he said, swerving off his course of total honesty. A direct answer to her question could only result in something much less civil than their current exchange. "I only became a judge after promising my oldest friend on his deathbed I would sit out the remainder of his appointment. I never intended to be a judge all these years."

"That sounds like a big fat _**no**__._ I wasn't talking about your judgeship. I was talking about us."

"Bird…our relationship was non-committal…"

"It may have started out that way," Robin interrupted, her incongruously childish voice suddenly harsh with emotional pain, "but it I committed to it wholeheartedly the first night we spent together. Am I really just a woman you slept with sometimes, Perry? How can you make a snap decision and walk out on your life here like this?" _Snap decision my ass. _

"It wasn't an easy thing to do. I have feelings for you, Bird." That even sounded lame to his own ears.

"As they say, you have a funny way of showing it."

"We shouldn't be having a conversation like this over the phone. Once Della is cleared, I'll come to San Francisco and we'll talk face-to-face."

"That's something to look forward to." She lit another cigarette. "Wasn't I good enough in bed for you? Is she better?"

"Really, Bird, we shouldn't talk like that over the phone."

"Then why in hell did you call me?"

"Right now I'm not sure," he snapped, instantly regretting it, and tossing that regret onto the ever growing pile. "I called because I wanted to know how you are and explain why I..."

"How am I? How _**am**_ I? Let me tell you how I am, you prick! I'm hurt and I'm pissed. I've loved you and slept with you for two years and you crept into my apartment in the middle of the night to leave a note! A note!"

"I left at eight-thirty in the morning, not in the middle of the night, and you were sound asleep. There wasn't time to wake you up and explain." If he had woken her up, he would still be there, trying to explain why he had to leave. "I do have feelings for you, Bird. But I made a promise. I told you about –"

"Yes, you told me all right," she interrupted, hoping not to hear _**one more time**_ that he had promised never to love another woman after Della Street. "I thought I could convince you it had been stupid to make such a promise, especially after what she did to you."

"Bird, if not for you, I might have become a hermit shut up in my apartment. I'm very grateful for that."

"If she hurt you bad enough to make a hermit out of you, then why on earth did you give up your entire life here and run back to her? She doesn't deserve that kind of devotion, Perry, no matter what kind of trouble she's gotten herself into." She was crying now and he could tell it was genuine and not one of her emoting exercises. "For no reason at all she stomped on your heart and all I get is a lousy note and an even lousier phone call to tell me you're _**grateful**_ I was willing to spread my legs so you could forget about her for a few minutes a couple times a week?"

"I never said that," Perry said stiffly, ignoring Robin's vulgarity. Robin flat out blamed Della for everything, but he'd had a lot to do with whatever it was that went unforgivably wrong between them. "She had a reason." She must have had a hell of a reason.

"Sure she had a reason. The reason was she never really loved you. She took all she could from you, then spit in your face and never looked back."

"That's not true. Della and I parted on amicable terms." _Sort of…_

"Stop talking like a lawyer with a corncob up his ass. _**Parted on**_ a_**micable terms**_. I was there, Perry. I saw what she did to you, but since you hardly ever talked about her I had to fill in the gaps myself. What kind of a woman suddenly turns her back on a thirty-year relationship?"

_The only woman I've ever really loved, that's who_, Perry thought, agony fresh and new over what he'd lost, Della's current proximity a reality he shouldn't think about, but couldn't stop thinking about. "The kind of woman who put up with a lot of crap in those thirty years," he heard himself say aloud. "The kind of woman who gave me everything she possibly could and accepted my faults with grace until she finally had to say 'enough'." It _**had**_ to have been his fault she could no longer be with him. He just didn't know exactly what infraction had finally broken Della's strong, pliable spirit.

"Hmmm. The same kind of crap I put up with? Let me tell you something, Perry. I would never have said 'enough'. Forever wouldn't have been enough for me no matter what you did. I loved you."

Her voice was so chilly Perry felt a rush of cold air through the phone line. Oh Lord. She knew. She knew about the other women. "Robin…"

"She should have come with you to San Francisco. What you do is so much more important than anything she could do and she should have recognized that. If she had children it would have been a different story, but she doesn't –"

"Robin! Don't talk about Della as if you know anything about her."

"Then come home and tell me everything," Robin begged, the pitiful weeping dissolving into huge, hiccupping sobs. "I'll listen and help you get over this obsession you have with her."

"I _**am**_ home, Robin. LA has always been my home. Moving to San Francisco was a mistake and running for retention after Harvey's appointment expired was an even bigger mistake. If I had stayed in LA…"

"If you had stayed in LA we wouldn't have met." How could he be this mean to her? She had read about the great Perry Mason, had heard stories about his famous temper and suffer-no-fools personality, but the man she knew, while he could be gruff and grumpy, had never been deliberately mean to her, devotional transgressions aside. His silence following her statement only deepened the hurt and humiliation his hasty flight from San Francisco had caused her. Not to mention the fact he was now calling her 'Robin', which he only did when he was annoyed with her. Imagine someone being so boorish as to be annoyed with the woman he was in effect dumping over the telephone.

"Robin, what do you want me to say? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to go to hell, Perry."

Perry leaned his head in his hand, pressing the receiver to his ear as Robin's misery gripped him. "I shouldn't have called," he said quietly. He'd wanted her to hear from him why he had resigned and quit his life in San Francisco, but her reaction was more than he had bargained for. "I am glad we met."

"Tell the truth, Perry. You wish you'd never slept with me."

"I didn't wish it until this very moment if it would have spared you from being hurt. We both took a chance when our friendship changed, Bird, and I'm sorry it didn't work out. I belong in LA, not in San Francisco pretending that being a judge is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to be back in the courtroom. HelI, I never wanted to be _**out**_ of the courtroom. I want to practice law again. I want –"

"You want to recapture the glory of your youth and bang your secretary again," Robin accused. "I thought men had mid-life crises in their forties, not their sixties."

"I'm not having any crisis. I'm an attorney. I've only ever wanted to be an attorney. It's taken me eight years to act on the fact I never should have become a judge. It was the worst decision I've ever made, no matter how noble the intent." He hadn't admitted that to anyone, not even Della.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, because I was getting the impression _**I**_ was the worst decision you ever made."

"That's not true. Our friendship means a lot to me."

Robin drew in a quick, insulted breath. "Friends don't do what we did, Perry."

Perry fell silent and Robin began to weep piteously again. Although he had been for the most part emotionally absent during sex, Perry was in all physical ways an extremely capable, satisfying lover. She craved his touch every waking moment, but settled for the one or two nights a week he sought out her companionship. In the beginning it had been she who initiated their coupling, but very quickly she realized that if anything were to continue between them, she would have to subjugate her desires to Perry's needs. He had told her from the start he had promised Della Street she would be the last woman he said 'I love you' to, but Robin would be damned if she'd let him off the hook because he'd put that warning out there when she'd shamelessly offered herself to him and he had so readily accepted the offer. If she did, it would excuse what he was doing now.

"I'm going to hang up, Bird. I'm not proud of this conversation and I think we both need time to think about it. I'll call when I can get away and come back for my things."

"I suppose you expect me to pack up everything." She'd be damned if she'd let him decide when it was time to hang up. Oh God, her heart hadn't been broken like this even when Vic had walked out on her and the kids for that tarty starlet and ruined his career, or when George had disappeared after six months of marriage with half of her bank account and sent divorce papers from Reno demanding half of her properties as well. Larry's death had made her sad, but it had been a relief considering the suffering he'd endured, and Harold's unexpected heart attack had negated the necessity of an inevitable divorce and given her more properties than she had given up to make George go away, including the one she live in now. How could this man, the only man she had slept with without the benefit of marriage; this man who kept himself physically near but emotionally remote; this man who had assiduously avoided defining and barely publically admitting their relationship, have such a hold on her? How could she love Perry Mason but apparently not know him at all?

"I would never ask you to do that. I'll hire a service."

"What should I tell the kids?"

Perry laughed softly, and another quick intake of her breath let him know it was the wrong reaction to her question. Her 'kids', thirty-two, thirty-four, and thirty-six, would not be surprised by his exit from their mother's life. "I doubt very much your kids will care one way or the other if I'm in their life or not, and probably thrilled that I'm not in yours."

"If you don't mind, I'd like the official story to be I ended things before you resigned. Last weekend. Last weekend I tossed you on your ear because you are an emotionless, cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch." They had spent only an hour together the past weekend, time enough for one of those early morning 'quickies' that left her nearly deranged for more of him, but she'd promised to take two of her grandchildren while her son and daughter-in-law celebrated their wedding anniversary. The children were to be dropped off at nine and Perry slipped out of her apartment just minutes before they burst through the front door and jumped into bed with their 'Mom-Mom'.

A great, heavy sadness crept into his heart. He did sincerely care about Robin, but he didn't love her in the way she wanted to be loved, the way he should have been able to love her if he hadn't given away his heart thirty years ago and never taken it back, truthfully had never wanted to take it back, or made a serious attempt to take it back. He had used Robin and the other women to exorcise demons, to beat back futilely at the loneliness of an empty heart, and it was shameful what he had done. "If it will help you get through this, Bird, I don't mind at all."

She couldn't pretend to be the true catalyst behind Perry resigning his appointment because the papers and news reports were full of the thrillingly romantic thing he had done for his former secretary and rumored long-time lover, but she could find satisfaction in telling her family and the tabloids that she had been the one to end their long-term relationship _**before**_ Della Street's troubles began. Broken-hearted by her rejection of him, he had grasped onto the fortuitous coincidence of Della Street's woes as an excuse to leave San Francisco and help him forget. Yes, that would play well for her. She'd be damned if she wasn't going to capitalize on the current situation. Her publicist could get quite a bit of mileage out of it.

"When do you think you'll be back? I'll have to check my calendar to see if I'll be available. Or if I'll even want to be available." The publicity about Perry and the small part she played in his life might nab a commercial or a sympathy appearance on a local news show…maybe even a guest spot on one of those new risqué _sitcoms_ that were so popular or on '_Remington Steele_'. That would be something. She could swallow a lot of humiliation to be billed as a 'special guest' for the opportunity to meet Pierce Brosnan. She would call her agent immediately after hanging up. She just had to find the perfect moment to end the call to her advantage.

Perry really hadn't given a return trip to San Francisco the slightest thought since Della called that morning – actually not until the words had emerged from his mouth. There were so many more important things to think about. He had called Robin to clear his mind for what lay ahead. Della would be acquitted, he was confident of that, but as to where they went from there…well, wherever they went, it had to be with the knowledge that Robin Calhoun was part of his past. It sounded harsh now, but the truth was often harsh, as he was well aware.

"I don't know. I have to set up an office, chase down and begin deposing witnesses, get a handle on the evidence…" _deal with an infuriatingly absent private investigator, and the fact that I will always be in love with my former secretary… _"_…_push for an accelerated preliminary hearing…I'll just have to call you, Bird, when things settle down."

"Do you have enough to wear? I could pack up your clothes and courier them to you." She sucked loudly on her cigarette and noisily blew out the smoke before tagging on, "For a price."

Her words could have completely discredited his motives for making the call, had she not added that final zinger. "Thank you, but that's not necessary. I brought enough." He listened very carefully for a few seconds, but she was suddenly completely silent. "Bird, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, that's nice. I'm sure it makes you feel better to say it."

"It doesn't. I never meant to hurt you. I thought you understood…"

"I'm just a dumb blonde, Perry, remember? I won two Emmy awards because I'm so good at being a dumb blonde."

"You aren't dumb, Bird." Quite the contrary. Robin Calhoun was extremely sharp, which took people by surprise when they met her in person. Blonde, blue-eyed, and curvy in all the right places, with that girlish voice, she was expected to be the ditzy woman she had played so ably on television, not the savvy property manager that she was.

"Let me have my pity party, Perry. I'm hurt and humiliated and…will you marry her?"

Perry jumped in surprise at her question. "Marry her? I have to get her acquitted first. And even then…I don't know what we'll be after that." _Because you see, I met the man who asked her to marry him, and he was a Class A ass, but there must be something redeeming about his character or she wouldn't have been with him for as long as she was. And he wants her._

"Oh God, are you telling me I was dumped for something that's not even a sure thing?" Her voice raised nearly an octave in stunned incredulity.

"Bird…" It wasn't a sure thing. There was a lot of water flowing under a bridge right now.

"Good-bye, Perry. I'll try to be civil until you move out of your apartment, but after that I don't want to have anything to do with you. You'll understand if I don't give back your security deposit. I'm quite sure the apartment won't pass final inspection. And on second thought, I _**will**_ pack up your things after all so I can begin a complete remodel right away, which I will also charge to you. Carpet, fresh paint, new curtains, a stove...I think I'm entitled to something for letting you use me for your sexual gratification."

"That's fine."

"And maybe I'll have a dishwasher installed." It was getting close to hanging-up time…

"I'm sorry, Bird."

"Hang up the damn phone, Perry."

He did, knowing that in doing so Robin would think she had wrested the high road from him, and that helped.

And the phone rang almost immediately. He yanked the cord from the wall and slumped back in the chair, hands raking through his hair in frustration at realizing what a failure he had been all his life at being honest, and soundly cursing it as the best policy.

The doorbell pealed and he launched himself from the chair before it rang again and woke up Della. He reached the front door and pulled it open.

A young woman with glossy black hair cut into a sassy bob stood on the stoop, finger poised to ring the doorbell again. She raised brilliant blue eyes to his. "Mr. Mason," she said in surprise.

He blinked in foggy non-recognition, his conversation with Robin Calhoun still working its way through his brain like a Kudzu vine, its tendrils insidiously attaching to every thought, strangling logic and civility out of them as it spread.

The young woman smiled broadly, realizing the attorney seemed to be dazed or truly didn't recognize her. "Can I come in, Mr. Mason? I promise not to ruin anything."

Suddenly Perry Mason flashed a grin to match that of the woman standing before him. "Kay-Kay," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

_Note: I wasn't going to post chapter 7 until Wednesday, but chapters 4 - 6 seem to have left a bad taste in some reader's mouths, and I hope this chapter will remove some of that bad taste._

_Please excuse me while I respond to a critique: three chapters out of 24 (so far) don't tell the whole story. Life is messy, and even admirable people lose their way sometimes, behave inappropriately, and become unrecognizable. What makes people truly admirable is how they clean up their messes and go on with their lives. Emotional pain is unforgiving, and you can't assume how people will react. I have seen very successful, stable, likable people react to personal turmoil by becoming foul, hateful, and vindictive, inflicting unnecessary pain on those closest to them. I have also seen contemptible, unlikable people become sincerely humbled when tested, their outlook on life forever changed. And I have seen a lot of people, likeable and unlikable, simply crumble under life's challenges. That is why writing character backgrounds is so interesting - there are so many reactive options to cull. _

_I **love** the novels, the show is one of my top ten favorites, and I tolerate the made-for-tv-movies out of nostalgia. The foundation of fan fiction is authors taking liberties with subjects that intrigue them and maybe I've taken too many liberties in the first few chapters for the comfort of some readers, but a lot can happen between chapter 6 and chapter 24. ~ D _

TCOT Absurd Assumption C7

Persephone Kay Baynum Hanify, or simply Kay-Kay*, entered Della's house and silently trailed after Perry Mason into the den when he put his finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow him. He closed the door and turned to regard the young woman who but for a quirk of fate could have been his daughter, the young woman with whom Della had formed an instant bond that had lasted over twenty years. Removed from the care of her indifferent mother and handed over to the wife of the man who had fathered her out of wedlock, Kay-Kay began to thrive, attending school for the first time, making friends, and strengthening the weakened heart of Madge Keating, who lived nine years longer than any doctor could have predicted. Kay-Kay was now a dental assistant, a wife, a mother, and a life-long member of the Della Street Admiration Society. He and Della had attended Kay-Kay's wedding, and Della had kept him informed of the girl's life since then, but here was another regret – he had only half-listened. Did she have two sons or two daughters? Didn't she live in Covina?

"Mr. Mason, how is Della? I've been calling and calling but the line was either busy or no one answered."

Perry waved in the direction of the telephone. "It was ringing off the hook when I brought her home from jail so I unplugged all the extensions. I figured she needed a day to gather herself before taking any calls."

"Well, we've been worried out of our minds about her," Kay-Kay chided the big attorney, who had the decency to duck his head contritely. "You haven't answered my question. How is she?"

"She's good. Aside from a couple of teary episodes, she's pretty much Della." _And I'm so thankful she is._

That seemed to satisfy Kay-Kay, who nodded once, swiftly. "Good. Who is this District Attorney who thinks Della Street could murder someone? I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."

"_**Her**_ name is Barbara Scott and she is very sharp."

"Well, she's a fool, if you ask me," Kay-Kay said darkly, drawing her shapely brows together.

Perry patted Kay-Kay's shoulder. "She's only doing her job. I must admit there is a lot of evidence that to an outsider would seem to point directly at Della."

"Well, why aren't you out there chasing down witnesses and getting to the bottom of this travesty? Isn't that what you do? Your _modus operandi_?"

Perry Mason gave another hearty laugh. He had forgotten how engaging Kay-Kay was. And how devoted she was to Della. Della was hardly old enough to be Kay-Kay's mother, but had often referred to her as her 'oldest daughter' and he suspected Kay-Kay considered Della a surrogate mother of sorts, especially since Madge's passing. "Because, Kay-Kay, I'm not back into the swing of things yet. We've been going over facts salient to the case." _And some far more interesting facts not so salient to the case._

"Well, I feel better now, knowing that you've been with her all day. Although…how is it going being with her?"

"I thought I just answered that."

"I know the two of you aren't together anymore, Mr. Mason. I confess to reading the tabloids occasionally because getting anything out of Della sometimes can be impossible. When she brought a date to my son's confirmation party last year I concluded the relationship was over." Kay-Kay rested her fist on her hip and squinted at the lawyer. "That's another thing I can't fathom. How could you think there is anyone out there better than Della?" Those tabloids she read had featured several photographs of Mr. Mason with an actress who used to be famous.

Perry nearly sighed, his draining conversation with Robin Calhoun still fresh in his mind. "We need to stay away from topics like that, Kay-Kay."

"Della is a lady and never talks about what happened, but really, Mr. Mason –"

"And I will be a gentleman about what happened, Kay-Kay," he said firmly. "Don't you think you should call me Perry? You're a grown woman now, and let's not forget I could have been your father if the timing had been different."

Kay-Kay wrinkled her nose. "That's another thing that completely confounds me about you."

"We were very young, and your mother was very different when I knew her. "

"Well, she changed a lot between the time you first knew her and when you saw her again, well, later."

"Was it terrible all the time?" His question was quiet, concerned. He had never asked how it had really been living in that crumbling house with a drunken, agoraphobic mother and a feckless uncle whose only luck was bad.

Kay-Kay moved away from him to stroll around the den that even she could recognize still contained vestiges of Perry Mason's presence in Della's life. Perry himself had been surprised by how much of him lingered in the house after three years. He would have thought Bryce Hummel or Asher Langlois would have insisted that his things be removed. But then, he hadn't removed much of Della from his own apartment.

"Uncle Wade made it bearable," Kay-Kay replied eventually, lifting an old scuffed baseball in her hand and fingering the red stitching. "Once he was gone, I'm sure it would have been hell living alone with my mother." She smiled suddenly. "But Madge made sure that I didn't have to find out."

"I'm glad Madge took you in, Kay-Kay. She was a good woman."

"The nine years I called her Mom were the best years ever." Tears glistened on her thick, jet black eyelashes. She laughed self-consciously and dashed them away with the back of her hand. "But I'm not here to talk about me. What is the plan of action to clear Della of this ridiculous murder charge? Is there anything I can do?"

Perry seated himself on the old couch and indicated that Kay-Kay should take the leather chair, a near replica of the client chair from his law office, which was now residing in his San Francisco apartment. He had a fleeting thought that something would have to be removed from the den in order for the authentic client chair to fit, before realizing that he was putting an entire herd horses before that coveted cart. "The immediate plan of action is to locate young Master Drake. He's been missing for a few days."

Kay-Kay chuckled. "Oh Mr. – _Perry_ – he's probably in Las Vegas jamming with the bands."

"Excuse me, '_jamming with the bands'_?"

Kay-Kay nodded. "He sometimes takes off with his saxophone and sits in with bands at the clubs after hours. Della says it clears his mind."

"He's too young for his mind to be unclear." Why hadn't Della mentioned this habit of Paul's?

Kay-Kay's smiled disappeared. "Well, he's been a bit…conflicted. He took your move to San Francisco hard. And the... break-up even harder. He would die for Della, you know."

_Yes, I do know. In that regard the boy and I are very much alike. _"How is it you know so much about Paul but barely anything about me?" Is that how everyone described what had happened between him and Della? They had 'broken up'? Such a trite little phrase for the end of almost thirty years of living and loving and working together.

"Well, Della talks a lot about Paul. She worries about him."

The doorbell chimed and Perry leapt to his feet as if shot from a cannon, which made Kay-Kay giggle. "Excuse me, I don't want Della to wake up."

"It's probably Janet," Kay-Kay called after him as he ran from the den. "Or maybe Aggie and Teresa. Or Ruth. Actually, it could be Evelyn."

Perry threw Kay-Kay an exasperated look over his shoulder as he hurried out of the den. The bell pealed again just as he grabbed the door handle.

* * *

><p>Perry stood next to the kitchen window that had been recently painted shut like all the other windows in the fall spruce-up Della had contracted, but close inspection revealed a thin slice in the paint where a knife had been run all around the perimeter of the window and inserted to jimmy the latch, which might not have been in the locked position judging by the relatively small amount of damage done to the window frame. He made a mental note to have Paul take photos of the obvious window-tampering during daylight hours, because the police had only searched Della's closets and trash cans for incriminating evidence <em><strong>against<strong>_ her, operating, as the police were wont to do, on the premise that suspects were guilty until proven innocent. The law enforcement arm of the judicial system had always had been a backward organization to his mind. He also made a separate note to have a security system installed no matter how vehemently Della might object.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep, calming drag. He might have to purchase a camera and take pictures himself if Paul couldn't be located soon. It was unbelievable the boy wasn't here, right now, champing at the bit to help with Della's case. Della had been hinting for a few years that maybe being a detective wasn't Paul's true calling, and Kay-Kay had called him 'conflicted', but that was no reason for him to be partying in Las Vegas and ignoring the plight of the woman who had just as much to do with his upbringing as his mother, and arguably more, thank the Lord.

He sat down heavily in a wooden Adirondack chair he had always disliked, giving no consideration as to how he was going to get out of the low, slanted seat. He couldn't hear the women, but he could see them through the window, sitting in the dining room, which Della had converted into a cozy conversation area and reading nook. Of all places for a house to have a fireplace, in this one it was the dining room, closed off from the rest of the house. Damn. Why hadn't he knocked down that lousy wall as he'd promised? Within a span of ten minutes following Kay-Kay's arrival, Janet Brent Timmons, Aggie Carpenter, Teresa Burdick, Ruth Hoban, and Evelyn Uptegraff had landed on Della's doorstep and even with his darkest looks and constant shushing, their excited feminine chatter had brought the object of their concern flying down the stairs. Seeing the gathering of her oldest and dearest friends, Della burst into what she insisted were happy tears and the chatter elevated to almost deafening levels at that point.

After an elaborate pantomime he hoped Della would understand to mean he was going to inspect the outside of the house, and if she needed anything all she had to do was shout, he excused himself from the assemblage of women. Although each one had meandered in and out of his life over the years, and Ruth had been Paul Drake's head stenographer and night operator for nine years, not one of them acknowledged his departure. As it should be. Their attention should be concentrated on Della.

Della's part-time cat had trailed after Perry as he inspected the outside of the house as well as the perimeter of the small, heavily landscaped yard and was now stretched out on the wooden deck at his feet, rolling around and giving himself a languorous bath in the cool evening air. Perry had to admit he was growing accustomed to the cat, and after discovering a section of the wooden fence that had been cut away to allow Chief to move freely between Della's yard and the yard next door, had reached through it to pull weeds that partially blocked the cat's egress. Chief had stood before the cut-out, whiskers twitching as his feline brain weighed options. In the end he decided that shadowing his newest best friend was more appealing than what awaited him on the other side of the fence, and Perry was actually grateful for the animal's companionship. Maybe he did like cats after all.

That made him smile, and he was still smiling and smoking when the back door opened and Janet Brent Timmons stepped out onto the deck, pulling an embroidered shawl around her shoulders. She quickly lit a cigarette and puffed on it nervously a few times before realizing she wasn't alone.

"Oh," she said, "_**you're**_ here."

The cat lifted its head and lazily opened one eye before settling back down, unconcerned or bored by Janet's intrusion.

Della would do anything for her friends, and in Janet's case, had done something bordering on stupid, the only time Perry had ever known his girl to be so irresponsible. Janet's case had been difficult on so many levels, testing not only his legal skill, but his personal relationship with Della; Della's friendship with Janet; as well as Janet's mercenary marriage to her much older, oddly effeminate, but very wealthy husband. The marriage hadn't lasted much more than a year after her trial and she was now married to a very good looking man six years her junior, living primarily off of her first husband's very (overly) generous divorce settlement. Perry never had been able to grasp why Della considered Janet such a good friend, especially when he knew Janet's calculated marriage to Alton Brent had initially estranged the two women, and their friendship had only recently been repaired when Janet was accused of murder over twenty years ago. Following the trial they had remained thick as thieves as he used to say because it was the nicest thing he could think of regarding Janet – to backhandedly call her a thief. Of all Della's long-time close friends he had met, Janet was the one he liked the least, handily beating out the high school friend who had slept with her boyfriend, and despite what he had done for her, Janet liked him even less.

"Afraid so." He took a final drag on his cigarette and looked around for the galvanized bucket filled with sand Della kept for guests who smoked.

Janet toed the small bucket toward him as she approached a second Adirondack chair arranged at an angle to the one Perry sat in. "Always prepared," she commented.

"That's our Della," he agreed conversationally, extinguishing the butt in the pristine sand.

"How dare you."

Perry's eyebrows shot upward inquiringly, refusing to verbally take the woman's bait.

"How dare you sit there and act as if you have a place in Della's life."

"I hate to spoil your righteous indignation, Mrs. Timmons, but _**Della**_ called _**me.**_"

"I suppose you think you're the only attorney who can get her acquitted."

"It seems to me many years ago I was the only attorney you thought could get _**you**_ acquitted."

Janet covered her face with her hands and a huge shudder passed through her body. Not as svelte as Della, Janet nevertheless had managed to stay within a dress size of her younger days with the help of many hours of exercise and much money spent at the spa to maintain her figure, whereas Della had been blessed with a familial slenderness inherited from her father. "Della was the one who thought you were the only lawyer who could help me and I went along with her. I hate that she has to go through this. And the coincidence! How great are the odds that we would both be accused of murder in our lifetimes?"

"I daresay odds are phenomenal against such a thing happening."

Janet studied the glowing tip of her cigarette, her face an expressionless mask. "The odds drop considerably simply by being associated with you, Mr. Mason. Murder seeks you out."

"That's a nasty thing to say, considering I haven't been around for a few years."

"Residual effects of your influence," Janet responded blithely, "like a comet's tail. Della has been caught in the magnetic field of that tail for far too long. Give her a break and leave before things get messy."

"Things are pretty messy right now, Janet. But as I've always said, I specialize in messes. I'll clean it up." What would be the equivalent of _'physician, heal thyself' _for an attorney_? _ _'Lawyer, acquit thyself'? _It was slightly brazen of him to commit to cleaning up Della's mess before taking care of the messes he'd made in his own life the past couple of years, but cleaning up one would go a long way toward cleaning up the others.

"God, you're even more arrogant than ever. Being a judge must have really stroked your ego. By the way, how can a judge try a case?"

"A judge can try a case when he's no longer a judge. I resigned."

Janet hid her face in her hands once again. "No," she moaned. "Why did you do that, Perry? Doesn't Della have enough problems without having to deal with being responsible for your resignation?"

"I've been looking for an excuse to resign for a long time," Perry admitted quietly.

"So Della's troubles are merely a convenience for you to once again get what you want? She's been convenient for years, hasn't she?"

Perry sighed. "That came out awkwardly. I shouldn't have sat on the Appellate Court past Harvey's appointment term. I made a bad decision."

"I'll alert the media," Janet said sarcastically, raising her head once more.

"Trust me, the media has already been alerted. In case you haven't noticed, there are several reporters in cars parked out front. A couple of police detectives are out there as well."

"Can you do this, Perry? Can you defend Della successfully?"

"Yes, I can. I'm surprised you'd ask that, Janet. You know Della is innocent."

"But can you defend her without causing more damage? She's vulnerable right now, more vulnerable than I've ever known her to be - even more so than when you two broke up. Ending her relationship with Asher was difficult, and losing Arthur so horribly…and then you come charging in to save the day…please don't take advantage of her lowered resistance. Don't expect her to give you what you want because of this idiotically romantic thing you've done. She's been hurt enough."

Perry sighed again, heavily and wearily, wondering how much Janet knew about his life with Della. She might know generalities, but he would place a very large bet without blinking an eye that she didn't know a lot of specifics, just as Kay-Kay didn't, Della being who she was. "Janet, I never expected clients to like me, but a little gratitude was always welcome. Your husband paid me well for defending you, but you never thanked me, and that stuck in my craw because what you asked Della to do for you could have destroyed her. It could have taken down my practice as well, and landed you in prison, but it was the personal loss that would have been most tragic. I defended you because it was the only way I could save Della, the only way I could deal with my fear and anger for her, the only way I could repair what you had done to our relationship."

"That's quite a speech, Mr. Mason. Practicing closing arguments for your upcoming return to the courtroom? Or perhaps for a return engagement as Della's lover? For the record, I have serious objections to whatever it is you might be planning with her in that regard."

"Don't be flip. This is serious, and I should have addressed it years ago. You're a terrible friend, Janet. I never could understand why Della considered you her best friend because from what I observed, all you ever did was take what that amazing woman offered and never gave anything in return. I don't like you, and I don't care if you like me or not. I'll grudgingly give you the benefit of the doubt and won't tell Della about our little talk because I think for the first time you actually have _**Della's**_ best interest at heart."

"I do," Janet choked, stung by his honesty.

"As do I. And the only plan I currently have is to get her acquitted. Believe it or don't believe it, but everything I've done since meeting Della has been for her." His voice lowered to a mere rumble. "It might not have always appeared that way, but believe me, it was. I've made mistakes, and I've paid dearly for some of those mistakes. She's my friend, and that is forever."

Janet blinked as it became clear to her. "You didn't know she and Asher had called it quits, did you? You stepped down from the bench for her even though she might reject you. Friend my eye. You're still in love with her." The last thing she had ever considered Perry Mason to be was vulnerable. But there it was, in his eyes, in his posture, in the tone of his voice. Great. If she could see it, Della could certainly see it, and it was unsettlingly attractive.

Perry's silence was his only answer.

"She rarely talked about your relationship, you know. It was just always there, and I never understood why she chose to be with you when she could have had almost any man in the world or any job she wanted. She's naturally irresistible, and completely guileless about the effect she has on men. Even Alton, who was indifferent to his own wife, couldn't resist her charms. I've tried to keep my current husband away from her because unlike Alton, Dean would make a move on her. It would destroy Della if that happened." She laughed nervously, self-consciously, at her confession.

"Mrs. Timmons, that is perhaps the most honest, most genuine thing I've ever heard you say."

She laughed that nervous laugh again, more than a little bit disconcerted that her long-held opinions about the intimidating lawyer were softening. "Where do we go from here, Perry?"

"From here, Janet, we concentrate on getting Della acquitted."

"That actually sounds like a good idea." The cat chose that moment to roll over and bat at her feet. "Chief!" Her face crumpled. "Oh God, I just realized Della named her cat after you."

*_Reference my story __**Something to Hide**_

_Note: The 'messy' part of Janet's and Perry's conversation is a fortuitous coincidence in regard to the critique mentioned above, having been written months ago, edited weeks ago, and ultimately circling back to my story **TCOT Pretty Stones**. ~ D_


	8. Chapter 8

TCOT Absurd Assumption C8

Della staggered from the island to the refrigerator, putting away the leftover pizza and salad Perry had ordered and paid for to be delivered. She was exhausted and tipsy, but stubbornly refused to allow Perry to clean the kitchen for a second time. He had been gracious and charmingly patient today in his encounters with first Asher and then her friends. She had been grateful for yet a trifle nervous about his presence and what it might appear like to her friends and the press, but after the fifth bottle of wine, she decided her friends and the press could think whatever the hell they wanted. Let them assume and ponder and gossip. As always, what she did within the confines of her own home was her business and her business alone. And while she loved her friends dearly, and appreciated their offers to spend the night and take care of her, the proven expert at taking care of her was in the kitchen, sitting at the island, letting her do absolutely everything herself, watching with tender, concerned eyes. And she liked it.

"Della, you just put a candle in the fridge."

She rested her forehead against the refrigerator door and chuckled. "I thought the power of the mind could conquer all, but maybe exhaustion is the true conqueror."

Perry came up behind her and placed his hands on her upper arms. "Go to bed. I'll finish cleaning the kitchen." Because no matter how tired she was, if she knew there was one dish in the sink, she wouldn't sleep. And he wouldn't sleep knowing that she wouldn't sleep.

"You've done so much already. I need to do this."

"No, you need to go to bed, sleepy girl."

She turned her head and pressed her warm, wine-flushed cheek against the smooth surface of the refrigerator. "This feels heavenly." How many times had he called her sleepy girl when she finally crashed after keeping pace with him for hours on end? A thousand?

Perry snickered. "You are delirious, and I suspect a bit drunk. I should have stopped opening the wine after bottle number three and hidden the corkscrew from you." It had been a long time since he'd seen Della drink so much, another subtle sign of the stress she was under. The other women had sipped at the wine sparingly while regarding their friend with concern, and he calculated that she must have consumed two-and-a-half bottles by herself. If they had intended to get their friend tanked, it had been a rousing success.

Della opened one eye and peered suspiciously at him. "You aren't going to do something silly like carry me upstairs, are you?"

"No. I am never silly."

She laughed delightedly and closed her eye. "I don't get drunk."

"But you've been known to be silly."

The eye opened once again. "And you've been known to get drunk."

He turned her and propelled her toward the stairs for the second time that day. "That cuts me to the quick, young lady."

Della yawned with a remarkable vocal accompaniment. "I put fresh sheets on the guest bed."

Perry stumbled over his own feet and nearly pitched Della head-first into the door jamb. She instinctively reached out an arm to save herself from a concussion. "Maybe I had one too many glasses of wine myself," he lied to cover how much he had not expected her to say something like that.

"You don't think you're going to drive around LA looking for a hotel room in the middle of the night, do you?"

"I have no intention of doing that. The Rochester is holding a reservation for me. I called while you and your lady friends were whispering and giggling and pointing at me."

She twisted from his grasp and faced him, hands on hips. "Reservations expire at midnight." How did he know they were whispering and giggling about him?

"I doubt I'll be turned away."

"You'd really leave me alone tonight knowing that someone broke into this house?" He had told her about the window while she struggled to tidy the kitchen, reassuring her that he had checked the windows in the house and all were locked.

"Della, if you wanted someone to stay with you, why did you send everyone home?"

She wanted to lean against him exactly as she had against the refrigerator. He was so big and strong and made her feel safe. "Because."

"Because why?"

"Because someone I cared a great deal about was murdered and I was arrested today. This hasn't been the best day of my life – hasn't been the best couple of weeks...I didn't want them to know…" her voice trailed off and she bit her lower lip.

"Hey kiddo, it's okay to admit you're scared." He said gently, his voice a rumbling croon. "And it's tomorrow – your bad day is behind you."

She shook her head. "No, I can't…"

"Sometimes the caretaker needs to be cared for, Della. You've always been the one everyone turns to when things go wrong. Let us take care of you for once."

"How can you take care of me from the Rochester?"

"Della, I'm your attorney. There are professional ethics to observe here. Attorneys don't spend the night in their client's houses. " _Even if they want to more than anything in the world._ "The reporters and the detectives saw you shoo your friends out the door and know that I'm still here. We can't hand Barbara Scott anything she'll use toward impugning your character..."

"Barbara Scott can take a long walk off a short pier. Let her dig up my past." She waved her hand dismissively. "I'm the one with the big problem, remember, and I don't care anymore."

"I remember. It's just not a good idea for me to stay."

"Don't trust yourself?"

"I trust myself. I don't trust _**you**_. I believe you are mistaken about never getting drunk."

"If I were truly drunk, our clothes would be scattered around the kitchen and we would be lying on top of the breakfast bar _in flagrante delicto_. As you can see, I am fully clothed."

Completely, utterly, totally, wholly, and altogether shocked at her bold disregard of their contract, and not knowing whether to blame the wine for such a breach, Della's penchant for cheekiness, or something more tantalizing, Perry felt his jaw sag. "And exactly what crime would we be engaged in, Della Katherine?"

She giggled like a schoolgirl. "The crime of passion, silly!" She hiccupped and clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide and very, very beautiful. "We're repeat offenders, if you recall."

"This is exactly why I'm staying at the Rochester, and why that contract exists. We can't do this, Della." How many times would he have to say that to convince himself, let alone Della? He had to prove what he wasn't here for the purpose of taking advantage of her, and if that meant disobeying every screaming molecule in his body, then so be it.

"If I'm as think as you drunk I am, how would I know if we did anything?" She lifted one perfectly expressive eyebrow, totally oblivious to her garbled words and positive for all the world she'd just made a pithy point.

"You are going to be a mess in the morning, Miss Street. Take an aspirin and drink two glasses of water before you go to bed." He spun her around to face the stairs, resisting the urge to slap her lightly on the behind. She was usually lucid and articulate when drinking, and he found her slip hysterical. "Remember the contract."

She whirled to face him once again. "Damn that contract! Call Art Emmelander right now. He does contracts, right?"

"Art retired last month."

"Then call Jim Brandis."

"Jim retired _**two**_ months ago."

She stared at him with enormous eyes. "Good grief, when did you get so old? All your friends are retired." Then she hiccupped and shrugged. "Oh well. A bartender wrote it down and a drunk witnessed it. Let's find an open bar." She grabbed his hand and tugged impatiently.

Despite the titillatingly dangerous conversational path they were on, Perry was finding it difficult not to laugh, knowing that if he did, they would most certainly wind up hip-to-hip somewhere, and as magnificent as that sounded, as incredible as it would be, as desperately as he wanted it, it simply couldn't happen. With every ounce of resolve he had, Perry disengaged his hand and nudged Della toward the stairs. "Go to bed, Della. I'll be back bright and early in the morning."

She placed one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the newel post. "If you go, I won't sleep," she mumbled petulantly. His ethical streak pissed her off sometimes. He called it his 'damn conservative disposition'. She called it damn bothersome.

"Yes, you will. Even you aren't that stubborn."

"You know very well I am too that stubborn."

"Perhaps you are. But I'll bet you a dollar you will sleep until nine-fifteen."

Quick as a flash she dropped to the step, drew up her legs, and wrapped her arms around them. "You're on. You will find me in this exact position in these exact clothes no matter how early you come over."

He patted her head. "You'll be okay, Della, otherwise I would have insisted that Janet spend the night. Detectives are keeping an eye on the house as well as some plucky reporters. No less than four cars are parked out there in the street. You have plenty of bodyguards. But if you really don't want to be alone, I'll call Janet and I'm sure she'll gladly come back."

She treated him to a fierce scowl.

And as Perry Mason closed the front door behind him, he realized that despite his earlier capitulation, this was the first time he had not let Della Street have her way.

* * *

><p>After waving jovially at two bleary-eyed detectives who had spent an uncomfortable night in their car parked across the street from Della's house, Perry Mason inserted his key into the lock and swung open the front door at eight thirty-five the next morning. Good thing he had not given the key back to Della – and trying not to suddenly read too much into the fact she had never asked for it back.<p>

He was mildly surprised yet greatly relieved that Della was not seated on the bottom step anticipating his return. After all, there was pride and a whole dollar at stake, and her stubbornness could have been bolstered enough by the wine to break with common sense.

Perry went straight to the coffeemaker and quickly set it to doing its job. Sleep for him had been fitful and he figured several pots of coffee would be required to keep him alert, and to sober up Della, so he filled three additional filters with grounds, stacked them, and set them aside. He then pulled eggs from the refrigerator so they could warm up before he began preparing breakfast. Della would like that. She didn't eat much for breakfast unless he cooked it for her or ordered it in a restaurant, and she loved breakfast food almost as much as she loved steak.

In the den, he sat down at the beautiful mahogany Georgian Manner partner desk they had stumbled across in the corner of a dusty antique store and pulled the telephone in front of him. Lifting the receiver, he plugged the instrument back into the outlet and dialed a number printed on a gilt-edged business card.

Half-way through the first ring, the call was picked up and a tentative voice came over the wire. "Della?"

"How the hell do you know whose number this is, Tragg?" Perry demanded.

Arthur Tragg chuckled. "Mason? What are you doing calling from Della's house?"

"Answer my question and maybe I'll answer yours."

"Oh, my firm is testing a new caller identification system. Good news: it works. What's up?"

"Do you live in a cave? Have you not read a newspaper or heard from one of your old cronies in the department?"

"Of course I read the newspapers, and for your information, no less than ten cops called me. I've also tried to call Della several times. It's a damned shame. My partner worked with Gordon on a couple of technical projects and said he was a visionary in the computer field. By the way, that was quite a sacrifice you made, Your Former Honor. I didn't know a stuffy old judge could have such _savoir faire_."

"There was no sacrifice." He paused, ignoring Tragg's dig. "What do you know about the officer leading the investigation? A Lt. Cooper? I've left several messages, but he's ignoring me. Too busy with the Arthur Gordon case, I'm told."

"Cooper's methodical and lacks humor, but he's a decent cop. He's not as affable as I was, so think carefully before pulling any shenanigans on him. And if you thought getting information out of _**me**_ was tough…your best bet is to get buddy-buddy with the kid on his team. Stratton, I think his name is. He's pretty green, and from what I've been told, likes to make himself out to be a bigger deal than he is, but he doesn't have much common sense. College kid. His dad was a good cop, so of course that automatically makes the kid qualified to be a sergeant at twenty-four after spending a year on the street. I think Steve Drumm took him off the street so he wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Thank you for the information." Perry grinned at the disgusted sarcasm in Tragg's voice.

"Any time. How is Della?"

"Beautiful. Sassy. Scared."

"She didn't do it, of course."

"She did not. But if you saw the evidence they have, I think even you would arrest her."

"I'm not a cop anymore, Perry. I'm a civilian, and as a civilian I rely on faith in my friends and no longer on what evidence tells me. Besides, I never arrested Della unless I had no other choice."

"If you had adopted that philosophy twenty-five years ago you could have saved the taxpayers of Los Angeles County a lot of money in unnecessary court costs, Tragg."

"You kill me, Mason. What can I do for you?"

"You can find Paul Drake's feather-brained son. I have it on good authority that he often hangs out in Las Vegas, '_jamming with the bands'_."

"Piece of cake. Want his patties slapped and sent home or do you want a call when he's been located?"

"Don't let him know he's being looked for or that he's been found. I'll call you. Della won't admit this, but she's disappointed in Junior and I don't want her to know I had to sic a detective on our detective to bring him home. He should have been by her side the instant she was arrested. She has a pie-in-the-sky idea that the three of us can work together on her case and…"

"And you never could refuse Della Street what she wants," Tragg finished with keen insight into the relationship of Perry Mason and his former secretary. "By the way, stop calling me a detective or I'll charge you for this favor. I assure you my current rate as owner of a highly respected security consulting firm is far greater than what the senior Drake used to charge as a crack PI."

"Braggart. Why a fine woman like Mildreth Faulkner* would marry a good-for-nothing lout like you is beyond me. I hope you're treating her well."

"She's stuck with me this long, so I must be doing something right. Geez, Perry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded…"

"No offense taken, Arthur. Della and I had a lot of good years together before she walked away."

"_**Della**_ walked away?"

"_**Now**_ I take offense."

"Seriously, you overgrown miscreant, if you need anything else to help with Della's defense, you call me right away. This case is too important to rely on a dusty bag of legal tricks."

"They restrained her and put her in a detention cell," Perry said, his voice low and tormented.

"That's just like Cooper to go in with Army boots when bedroom slippers would be more appropriate. It's a scare tactic the police use on the more, uh, _**genteel**_ suspects. You'd be surprised how many confessions and agreements to cooperate come out of spending a few hours in a detention cell. She was taken out and put in a semi-private cell, wasn't she?"

"Yes, but that doesn't…" the import of Tragg's words finally arrived at Perry's thought center. "Tragg, did you –"

"Don't say anything, Perry. Just give Della my love."

Perry swallowed with difficulty, trying to regain his composure. "I will not. That ship sailed when you promised to love, honor and cherish another woman."

"Glad to know you're still the same horse's behind you always were, Mason. I mean it, if you need anything else, you call me. This is one case I'd be more than happy to help you win. I speak for Mildreth as well."

Perry hoped his voice didn't sound as choked up as he was. "On second thought, I will tell Della you send her love. And Tragg…"

"Yessss?"

"Della and I both thank you for being a friend."

Arthur Tragg was quiet for several seconds. "Son-of-a-bitch. I hate it when you get humble, Mason."

* * *

><p>At nine-fifteen, after making several additional telephone calls, Perry returned to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. The welcoming aroma of brewing coffee hadn't roused Della, and he feared maybe she wasn't actually in the house, that maybe after he'd left she had taken a cab to Janet's or Evelyn's to spend the night, but the presence of the detectives outside disproved that, and he relaxed again. In retrospect, maybe he had been harsh and unfeeling about leaving her alone following the shock of the previous thirty-six hours. At nine-twenty-five he stood at the bottom of the stairs, his third cup of coffee in hand, contemplating whether or not he should run up and check on her when he heard the toilet flush. He smiled smugly to himself about being a dollar richer and walked slowly back to the kitchen. He could wait. Oh yes, he could wait. Once he had waited two whole years.<p>

Della shuffled into the kitchen wearing one of those long, soft brushed cotton gowns she (he) loved so much, a terry cloth robe, and ridiculous fluffy slippers. She hadn't secured the robe and the tie had pulled out of a loop, which left one end dragging on the floor behind her. Wordlessly she pulled a stool out from the island, climbed slowly up onto it, and laid her head down on crossed arms. Silently Perry poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of her. He moved away back to the stove, but the sound of knuckles rapping on the countertop made him turn to look at her again.

She was holding a dollar bill in the air between two fingers.

With a smirk, he took the bill, removed his wallet from his suit coat pocket and spent an inordinate amount of time smoothing out the bill and placing it in the wallet.

"Nobody likes a winner who gloats," she grumbled, inhaling the steam that rose from the cup of coffee like oxygen.

"_Au contraire, mon ami_. Everyone loves a winner, no matter what kind."

"Why are you cooking breakfast all dressed up like that?"

"Why don't you let that coffee take effect before you speak again, hmmm?"

"You never change," she muttered under her breath.

"Come again?"

"I said, you never change. You still answer questions with questions."

"Don't you find continuity comforting?"

"Don't you find predictability boring?" She shot back, yawning to emphasize her point.

Perry shrugged out of his suit coat and hung it over the back of the stool next to Della. He then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them up to his elbows. "Better?"

He looked positively wonderful, the decorative element that completed her kitchen. "Marginally."

"Tough audience."

"I'm mad at you. Do you happen to remember why?"

Perry burst out laughing and Della winced. He turned off the gas and removed the iron skillet full of what he called a 'deconstructed omelet', which was merely scrambled eggs with cheese, onions, mushrooms, and cubes of ham stirred in. Della called it a 'lazy old man's omelet'. He plated the eggs, added buttered wheat toast and a slice of honeydew melon, draped a towel over his forearm, and placed the meal in front of Della with a deep bow. He then repeated the process for himself and took a seat on the stool next to her.

"_Bon appetit_," he said cheerfully, raising a glass of orange juice.

"Speak English," she groused.

"But _bon appetit_ loses so much in translation. 'Good appetite' sounds Puritan, and 'enjoy your meal' is banal."

"You forgot forks, _gar__ç__on,_" Della deadpanned.

Perry sighed and stood to retrieve the forks he had left on the counter next to the stove. After handing Della her fork and refilling their coffee cups, he took his seat once again.

They ate, making only occasional comments, and Perry ached with the comfortable intimacy of this unremarkable event. Despite Della's understandable grouchiness, he hadn't enjoyed cooking and eating a meal as much as this in a long, long time. There was a lot to be said about a challenging give and take compared to a conversation that contained replies such as 'whatever you want', or 'I don't care' to every other question.

He shook himself, literally and figuratively. He couldn't compare Robin to Della, not again. They were very different women and his relationships with them were equally as different.

"Someone just walk over your grave?"

"There's a distinct possibility."

"Have you spoken with Robin?"

Perry stared at Della. "How do you _**do**_ that?" _And why did you do that? Article I specifically covers the confidentiality of subsequent relationships_ – oh damn that preposterous contract to hell!

She lifted the corners of her mouth in a shrugging smile. "Lightning fast powers of deduction, Counselor. The front runners of those who would wish you ill at this particular time are Barbara Scott and Robin Calhoun. I don't see you being fearful of an encounter with Barbara Scott, but I imagine things with Robin aren't exactly going smoothly right now."

"Smooth might not be a word I would use at the moment." The comment could be considered a breach of Article I, but the words just fell out of his mouth. Besides, she had told him about Asher Langlois' ill-fated proposal, which made it all right for him to say something in regard to Robin.

Della dropped her gaze to the empty plate in front of her. "I'm sorry, Perry. The last thing I wanted was to cause problems between you and Robin."

She slid off the stool and when she would have bolted from the room, he grabbed her wrist. "Della, I shouldn't have said that. You are not to worry about what may or may not be going on between me and Robin."

"But –"

"But nothing. Do what your attorney says."

Della refused to meet his gaze. Considering the gesture Perry had made on her behalf, his former _inamorata_, she imagined Robin Calhoun must be furious, but after all, they had agreed not to discuss any and all independent romances with each other. She wasn't sure if the dissension hinted at between Perry and Robin made her happy or sad. Her old friend, sass, surfaced to protect her. "Yes, Mr. Mason. Thank you for breakfast, Mr. Mason. May I get dressed now, Mr. Mason?"

"Take your time, brat. I have to run out. While I'm gone, you should make calls to your sister-in-law, my sister-in-law, and Mae. I'm sure they've all tried to call. Then why don't you order steno pads and pencils and all those other do-dads you'll need to play secretary. We have a lot of work to do."

_Note: In the novels, Tragg was a contemporary of Perry Mason's. Ray Collins was a fine actor, but ever since I read my first PM novel at eleven, I couldn't accept him in the part. Lt. Tragg is my favorite supporting player, and although I might technically be stepping into dangerous 'alternate universe' territory, I am exercising creative license for the sake of story-telling because I adore writing the relationship between him and Perry. ~ D_

*_Refer to the novel __**TCOT Silent Partner **__for Della's observation of Tragg's interest in Perry's client Mildreth Faulkner._


	9. Chapter 9

TCOT Absurd Assumption C9

Decent public telephones were becoming harder and harder to find as car phones, those new phones in a bag and even 'mobile' phones proliferated, and Perry had to drive several blocks before finding a phone attached to a pole at the far end of a filling station lot.

Tragg picked up after three rings this time, obviously in no hurry to answer a call from a number identified as a public service station phone. "Is that you, Mason?"

"Yes, it's me. I told you I didn't want Della to know about this. I told her I needed to run an errand and I'm calling from a public telephone, so I'd appreciate a quick report."

"Soon there won't be a need for public telephones," Tragg opined. "My company is testing a new…"

"Tragg, I haven't much time. I really do have a couple errands to run. I left Della alone, and she doesn't like being left alone. Have you found Paul?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. And he wasn't in Vegas. He's been in Los Angeles the whole time."

"You have got to be kidding me," Perry seethed through gritted teeth.

"Would I kid you? He's been sitting in with the band at a joint called the _Jazz Spot_ a couple nights a week. Mildreth and I went there once. Didn't like it. Has no edge and the crowd is too young to appreciate good music. All they want to hear is that watered down easy listening crap. Chuck Mangione," he snorted.

"We can get together and discuss music after Della is acquitted," Perry said sharply, his patience worn thin by lack of sleep, his conversation with Robin Calhoun, disappointment in his best friend's son, and being so close to Della but still so far away from her. "Thank you for finding Junior. He doesn't know he was hunted down, does he?"

"Hell no. I'm a professional, and I only twist the arms of other professionals to do me favors. You aren't going to cause a scene are you?"

"No, I'll go the subtle route and shame the boy."

"The first set is at nine. Would you like back-up? I'd be more than happy –"

"No, thank you, Arthur. I appreciate what you've done already, but this is one of those things I have to do myself, whether I like it or not. What's the address of this club?"

With the address of the _Jazz Spot_ scribbled in his notebook and an appointment to have Tragg's security firm install an alarm system in Della's house in the next couple days, Perry pulled away from the service station telephone, his face granite hard.

* * *

><p>Della regarded the little plastic box skeptically. "I don't know about this," she said uncertainly, brow puckered in dubious concern. "Can't we just hire Gertie to answer my phone for a few days?"<p>

The security system Perry arranged with Tragg to have installed she accepted without much protest, but a silly little answering machine she was objecting to? Perry could never have predicted it this way.

Perry glanced up at her, phone cord held in his hand, preparing to plug it into the answering machine. "The salesman at the store said this is the easiest model to use. Everyone has an answering machine nowadays, even an old fuddy duddy like me. I can't believe you don't already have one. You love new gadgets. I almost went cross-eyed with all the waxing rhapsodic about the computer Gordon gave you." And while he was thinking about it, what kind of a boss gave an employee a computer to work at home? Wasn't it enough that she worked fifty hours a week at the office as well as at the estate? Did she really need to bring work home with her? But he had no right to complain about the hours she worked for Gordon Industries. How many times had he kept her going for twenty-four, thirty-six, even forty-eight hours without much more than a couple bathroom breaks and a sandwich?

"I don't know," she repeated, even more doubtfully than previously. "A home answering machine seems…intrusive somehow."

"Intrusive?"

"Maybe that's not the correct word for it, but when you have an answering machine you can't ignore those calls you want to ignore."

He snapped the cord into the designated slot and then into the phone jack. "Della, answering machines were specifically designed so calls _**could**_ be ignored."

"I thought they were designed so that one would know who wants to talk to one, thereby creating a deep sense of obligation for one to call Aunt Hortense back to hear all about her bunion surgery. There is no hiding when someone leaves a message."

"What are you talking about? You've never ignored a ringing phone in your life, no matter what you say, which is why it's been unplugged for two days, and why an answering machine is such a good idea right now. Hand me the phone, will you?" _Will you ignore my calls now?_

She handed the telephone to him. "I didn't answer the telephone when we were, um, cavorting."

"That's a good euphemism for it."

"Thank you. Roget published a new thesaurus."

Perry tried not to laugh, which resulted in a snort. "You know you did..."

"I most certainly did not…"

"Then explain the question Junior asked his mother about…"

Della held up her hand. "Don't say it." She watched him plug a second phone cord into the answering machine and then into the telephone. "Now that you mention it, maybe Junior did get an earful once or twice because _**someone**_ refused to put the cavorting on hold." Something the boy overheard and let slip to his mother had resulted in Paul Sr. being dragged back to family court to defend his joint custody rights. That had been difficult to explain to their aggrieved friend.

Perry snickered. "And Senior tried to be indignant with us for exposing his young son to…what did he call it?"

Della grinned. "Indecent, immoral, and inappropriate behavior." Then the former Myrtle Lamar* had been caught participating in such behavior with a man she eventually ran away with, and the petition with the Family Court had been dropped, quickly, and with a stunning outcome.

"Ah, those were the days."

Della snuck a glance at him beneath lowered lashes, but he was concentrating on coiling the extra cord length, securing the coil with twist ties, and tucking the coil against the side of the desk.

Perry lifted the receiver, listened for the dial tone, and nodded with satisfaction. "Now all you have to do is record an outgoing message and you'll be set." He popped the tiny cassette into the receptacle and snapped the lid shut.

"Chief will pull those cords out and chew through them in a minute flat," Della told him. Cats knew instantly when there was something new in a room and it was their nature to investigate thoroughly, which loosely translated meant they played with ab-so-lute-ly everything. "Also, they're unattractive."

"They're against the wall and will do for now until we find something better to disguise them," Perry retorted. "Would you rather have the cords tangled and lying on the floor?"

"As long as you're finally asking, I'd rather not have the cords at all."

"Della, people are worried about you and want to know how you are. We'll set the machine to pick up calls on the first ring, and you can return messages when you have time. By the way, did you call your family like a good girl while I was gone?"

"I did. I talked to Henny, who insists she and Carter will be here for the preliminary hearing no matter when it's scheduled for. I called Aunt Mae, but she was out of town and Betty couldn't get her to come to the phone."

"Where did she go today?"

"Baltimore."

Perry leaned against the desk, one hand lying flat on the blotter to prop himself. "Did she take anyone with her?"

Della shook her head. "No. She told Betty she was going to visit an old friend who had a small house that could only accommodate one guest. That would be her friend Miriam, who lived in Baltimore forty years ago."

Perry chuckled softly, both amused and saddened by Della's little story about Mae Kirby.

Della's aunt, seventy-nine years old and slipping deeper into dementia with each passing year, had been ensconced in a top-notch assisted living facility that specialized in caring for those who were strong of body but weak of mind. One of the quirks of what the phenomenal staff referred to as her 'funks' was that Mae hallucinated that she travelled to cities around the world, usually with companions conjured up from her past that seemed more real to her than those who were alive and present. They laughed about her trips, but only to mask the fear about Mae's eventual loss of all cognitive function.

The first symptom to occur was seeing shapes and colors before her eyes and her ophthalmologist changed her corrective prescription. Then came confusion and anxiety about everyday tasks such as bathing, eating, and dressing. She left food to rot in the refrigerator and didn't eat for days, wore layers of clothing because she thought she hadn't dressed, and applied make-up so heavily she looked like a trollop, according to her friend Caroline. When she had four fender-benders during a single drive to the grocery store, Della and Perry made an appointment with the best neurologist in the country, who immediately noticed a slightly stooped appearance and subtle foot shuffling and ordered a battery of tests. The probable diagnosis of Lewy Body Dementia had been devastating to them both, and they had immediately hired practical nurses to spend twenty-four hours a day with her, making sure that she ate and dressed properly, didn't harm herself, and could continue to live as normal a life as possible. Four years ago they had made the difficult decision to sell her Bolero Beach home and move her to Los Angeles to be closer to Della. Because she refused to live in Della's house and actually became quite violent in that refusal, Perry used his considerable influence to have her admitted to the highly regarded facility where she resided alongside former movies stars, directors, musicians, and executives from all types of professions suffering similar losses of their cognitive abilities. She thought it was an apartment building and that she still lived independently, and no one told her differently.

"She's been going out of town more and more lately," Perry said quietly.

"Dr. Carlson thinks it might be less than a year before she won't recognize anyone at all. The physical decline will intensify at that point." The life expectancy for Lewy body dementia was an average of seven years, and it terrified Della that her aunt's symptoms had first been noticed six years ago.

"When I saw her last month she thought I was Caroline's husband for an hour. Then all of a sudden she called me by my name and wanted to know if I'd overturned any interesting cases lately."

Tears glistened in Della's eyes as her hand covered his lightly. She tried to say something, bit her lip and lowered her gaze. She knew he had continued to visit Aunt Mae after they separated, because Betty, the nurse primarily responsible for Mae's care, was not embarrassed to admit she thought Perry Mason hung the moon and kept her up-to-date on his comings and goings, often much to her chagrin. But she was touched to the core that he cared so much about her Aunt Mae.

Perry leaned forward and cupped her chin with his other hand. Della resisted the gentle pressure of his fingers for a moment before finally looking up at him. "I love her too, and I'm going to spend time with her no matter if she knows who I am or not, even if you and I are no longer together."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "She tells me about your visits sometimes. Did you know you went to London with her last month?"

Perry chuckled. "We no doubt had a great time. Did you know she met your mother at the Taj Mahal?"

Della raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really? She hasn't mentioned that woman to me in years."

"Does anyone know where Eve is?"

Della shook her head. "No one has heard a peep from her since a few months after Father died. Carter thinks she might be in California, though. She talked about looking up old friends in Fresno several times before she disappeared."

"Paul could check into her whereabouts for you."

"Why would I want to know where that woman is?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe to give her an update on her only sister's condition and let her know about her only daughter's predicament?"

"If she wanted to know, she could have contacted us. And if she's in California she could hardly miss hearing about my _**predicament**_." Della dismissed Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman Street with an ambivalence reserved only for the woman who was her mother. "If she's in California…" she repeated, and left the thought unfinished.

She'd said enough for Perry. "I get now why you're fighting me on this answering machine. If Eve calls and leaves a message, you'll feel obligated to call her back." And if Eve didn't call, Perry knew he'd be dealing with a completely different reaction from Della.

"I'll make a deal with you. If she calls, _**you**_ call her back. _**I**_ had to talk with Bart today."

Perry couldn't help but grin. "I'll take that deal. How is Bartholomew?"

"Disappointed in his baby brother."

"Oh hell, Della. He shouldn't have made this about me stepping down from the bench."

"He thinks you could have taken a leave of some sort to defend me and then gone right back to being a judge." She fingered the buttons on the answering machine with the hand that wasn't still resting lightly on his, her gaze lowered once again. "Could you have done that?"

"No." Perry sat down in the desk chair that had once been his, and still conformed perfectly to his body. "If you're asking _**would**_ I have done that had the option existed, the answer is still no."

"So all I had to do to get you to come home was commit murder?"

Perry regarded her soberly, willing her to look him in the eye. Avoiding eye contact with him was the cataclysmic change in her behavior he should have detected sooner than ten seconds before she detonated the explosion that decimated his entire life. He had been blissfully unaware that anything was wrong, that he was anything but the love of her life, and when she admitted her involvement with Bryce Hummel she wouldn't – or couldn't – look at him.

Before he could form a response that wouldn't take them too many steps back in civility and with barely enough time to adopt a more neutral expression, Della lifted those miraculously temperamental eyes, deeply green and misty. "I'm sorry, Perry. That was a very bad joke."

He turned his hand beneath hers, interlacing his fingers with hers, locking their gazes. "Della…"

The telephone, which they had both forgotten, jangled, and Della squeezed his fingers fleetingly before withdrawing her hand.

If Perry and Della had kept score how many times in the past two days they had been interrupted by telephones, doorbells, or well-meaning friends and relatives appearing out of nowhere just as something potentially earth-shattering was about to occur between them they could have become discouraged. Instead, they did what they had always been able to do no matter how dire the situation was: they laughed.

* * *

><p>The<em> Jazz Spot<em> was everything horrible about clubs nowadays: trying too hard to be hip by falsely creating a seedy ambiance the truly great clubs had achieved naturally over time, like a fine patina. Those older clubs were cool because they simply _**were**_ cool. The _Jazz Spot_ was cool because an advertising firm put up a billboard saying it was cool, in letters four feet high, and therefore the young crowd, in search of the newest 'in' place, flocked to it for insipid music, overpriced drinks, and unremarkable snack food.

Perry Mason had selected a table toward the back of the club, at the end of the bar, hardly hidden, but as inconspicuous as possible given the limited selection of available tables, and his size in relation to those tables. The club was poorly lit and enshrouded in a fog of cigarette smoke swirling lethargically above men wearing ghastly pleated slacks in pastel colors with sweaters knotted around their necks, and women wearing long shapeless skirts and matching shapeless blazers with ridiculous puffy shoulder pads. Fifty years ago shoulder pads had been the fashion rage, but the style had been crisper, more tailored, waists defined, hips either disguised or enhanced with flirty peplums. Perry thought every woman in the club looked lumpy and uncomfortable wearing what resembled two pillows glued to their shoulders – nearly as uncomfortable as those who chose a more casual wardrobe of head-to-toe washed-out denim or layers of tulle over shiny tights that ended at their knees. He ordered a double bourbon on the rocks to congratulate himself for knowing what _tulle_ was, tipped the waitress to give a message to the saxophone player, and contributed to the bluish haze with two cigarettes smoked in quick succession as the band finished their set, reminiscing fondly about Joan Crawford and those powerfully sexy shoulder pads that could have put an eye out.

The last song in the set featured a saxophone solo, and Perry couldn't help but be impressed by Junior's talent, even if the tune was merely a light jazz reworking of a popular song currently being played on the radio. Tragg's disdain for the club became clear. It took more than syncopated phrasing and a random saxophone lick to satisfy a true jazz aficionado. Paul had heard enough good music growing up to know that what he was playing was substandard at best, no matter how well he played it, which made Perry wonder why playing such tripe 'cleared' the boy's head.

Perry quickly extinguished a partially smoked third cigarette when he saw Paul jump down from the stage, and follow the direction in which the handsomely compensated waitress pointed. Perry knew Paul recognized him even in the dense dimness, and after a moment of trepidation that the boy would turn heel and flee, relaxed when his best friend's and treasured colleague's son hurried through the crowded club toward him.

Paul approached the table at which Perry Mason sat, and extended his hand when he was still four feet away. Without standing, Perry took Paul's hand and shook it, chagrinned that the boy would so blatantly telegraph the distance that had grown between them. Paul Drake Jr. pulled out a chair and sat down facing the man who had been a constant presence in his life until eight years ago, just when he'd needed him most.

"Perry."

"Paul. Good to see you."

"Good to see you, too. And in case you're here to lecture me, I've been calling and calling and Della never answered. I finally talked to her right before the set began."

"You were too busy to drive to her house and check on her? She was worried about you when she should have been worrying about other things." They had eaten dinner together at a restaurant not too far from Della's house and then he had once again left her perturbed and alone.

Paul pushed up the sleeves of his loosely knit sweater, folded his arms across his chest and regarded Perry Mason with glittering eyes. "Actually, I _**was**_ busy. And I knew you were with her."

Perry was quite taken aback by the hostility he saw in Paul's eyes. "I am glad you finally spoke to her."

"She sounded good. How is she really?"

"As she sounds."

"You know she means the world to me, and I'll do everything I can to help her. She said you wanted to hire me to work on the case."

"No," Perry denied slowly, carefully. "_**She**_ wants me to hire you. _**I'm**_ still on the fence." He took a sip of his drink. "Do you play here often?"

"A couple of nights a week. It helps to blow off steam. And I make the band sound good." He flashed a roguish smile.

"I didn't realize you still played." Della had more than likely told him, many times, he just couldn't recall. When had he stopped hearing what she said about the boy? About everything?

"It clears my head."

"Someone told me that. What about the agency?"

"It's still there."

"How many operatives do you have?"

"One."

"One beside yourself?"

"No, just one. Me."

"What happened to all the others?"

"I reduced my overhead. I'm doing okay."

"You think you can be a private investigator and a musician?"

"Why not? You're a judge and a jackass."

Perry swirled the ice in his glass with one long finger. "Well, I've fallen off that fence."

"I'm working on Della's case whether you like it or not, Perry. Della wants me to." Paul jutted his father's strong chin forward defiantly.

"I'm not so sure you're qualified to work on such an important case. How is your novel coming?"

"About halfway done. Give or take a chapter."

"You've been saying that for two years." He _**did**_ remember something Della had told him.

"Perry, I know you don't approve of how I live my life, and I certainly don't approve of how you've been living yours the past few years, but I'm willing to look past that because no PI but me is going to work on Della's case. You got that?"

Perry stood abruptly and stared down at the young man he and Della had more than a little involvement in raising, lips pursed, eyes steely. "I got it. You're willing to look past what you have no knowledge of and no business talking about."

Paul jumped out of his chair and stood toe-to-toe with Perry Mason, cheeks flushed, eyes brittle and bright. "What I do isn't your business, either. Just because you're a judge doesn't give you the right to judge _**me**_."

"No, being your father's best friend, your _ersatz_ uncle, and attorney for the woman you claim means the world to you gives me that right. You want me to respect you, Paul, but I can't respect you if you don't respect yourself." He pushed past Paul and strode toward the exit.

Perry was in the rented convertible and pulling out of the alleyway parking space when Paul caught up with him. The young man jumped into the passenger seat without opening the door, leaned over, and turned off the ignition. Perry shifted in the seat toward Paul. He had expected the boy to follow him after thinking things over.

"I'm working this case, Perry, for Della. You can hire a million investigators but not one of them will do as good a job as I will, because they don't love her the way I do. I'm a good investigator. And I have connections in LA that you don't. I've already talked to a contact of mine on the force and I think I can get into the property room and sneak a look at the evidence."

"I still have enough connections to get Della out on unconditional bail for a capital crime."

"Damn it!" Paul exploded. "I'm not talking about old cronies in the District Attorney's office who remember who you _**used**_ to be. I'm talking about in the police department and on the street. Things are different than when you pretended to be a detective back in the day."

"I think my record speaks for how well I _**pretended**_**.** I also surrounded myself with people who were the absolute best at what they did. What have you got to show for yourself? A one-man detective agency, a half-finished novel, and a beat up saxophone are all I can see. I need an experienced investigator, Paul. Not an investigator-slash-musician-slash-novelist. This is Della's life we're talking about."

"Perry, I am an experienced investigator. I know what I'm doing."

"Paul," Perry sighed the name, "I've known you practically all your life. I know you're smart and would do your best, but I don't know if you're ready to take on a case like this."

"I'm working this case," Paul said through gritted teeth, very low, very firm. "Don't you dare tell me I can't help Della."

Perry Mason regarded the young man seated next to him. It was eerie sometimes how much he resembled his father. He made another snap decision. "Okay, I may quickly regret this, and you have a lot to live up to, but you're hired. Meet me and Della at your office tomorrow morning at eleven sharp."

Paul Drake, Jr. exited the car in a more traditional way than he entered and closed the door with an emphatic _**bang**_. "You won't regret hiring me, Perry. I'll work myself to death so that Della is acquitted."

Perry couldn't help but smile now. "I hope it won't come to that, but Della will appreciate the sentiment. Tomorrow at eleven, not a moment later."

If Perry hadn't been preoccupied with thoughts of his old friend Paul Drake and his quick, unexpected passing, he might have noticed the vehicle that materialized from the opposite end of the alley and nearly flattened the 'child' that had both deepened their friendship and inexorably pushed them apart.

*_Refer to the novel __**TCOT Daring Decoy**__ for a MUCH different take on Myrtle Lamar than the show_.


	10. Chapter 10

TCOT Absurd Assumption C10

Paul Thomas Drake, Jr. jumped down from his Jeep to which he was clinging for dear life onto the wet pavement, frustrated with himself that he didn't get the license number of the car that had tried to run him over, and he doubted if he could identify the make or model due to the lack of light in the dingy alley. A good private investigator would have gotten the license number and/or been able to describe the car in some detail, he ruefully realized, no matter how crappy the light might be. The incident happened so quickly and was clearly meant only as a warning; otherwise he would be lying lifeless in the alley. But whether the warning was directed at him or had been for the benefit of the great Perry Mason he wasn't sure. He had to conclude the incident was connected to Della's case and the car had followed Perry to the club, because honestly, his caseload currently consisted of a missing dog, several skip-traces handed to him by a philanthropic bail bondsman, and a hopeless landlord/tenant dispute, none of which warranted such a heavy-handed approach to the possibility of investigation.

Paul re-entered the dark smoky club and for the first time ever, felt uncomfortable and claustrophobic. Nightclubs had become his holy place, where he felt the most at home, largely anonymous until stepping into those momentary spotlights and letting loose on his saxophone. Then the women noticed him, as well as the occasional drunk who in slurred speech would tell him he was too good to play in a dive like this. He accepted the humdrum compliments about his musical ability with conscious sheepishness and the flirty compliments about his talent with wolfish glee. He rarely went home alone the two or three nights he played at the club every week.

Della would be appalled if she knew about his weakness for vapid wannabe groupies; skinny, giggly girls who wore frosted jeans, cropped t-shirts and big puffy tennis shoes and had atrociously permed hair that looked and felt like sticky straw. He would make out with them, have some laughs, occasionally invite them to spend the night, maybe 'go steady' for a week or so. Most of them disappeared when he admitted his day job was being a private detective, so he stopped mentioning it, and let his caseload dwindle to the point where the agency phone had been shut off. Thank heaven for that bail bondsman and his philanthropy toward struggling private investigators. Paul had paid the phone company and just that morning service had been restored to his one-man agency. He suspected the bondsman's philanthropy was predicated on his last name, and he was becoming wise enough to swallow his pride when it really mattered.

Cripes. Who was he fooling? Della probably already knew about his gig at the club, about the girls, and the sad state of his father's revered agency; and would no doubt find the shut-off notice buried somewhere in the dusty papers on his desk tomorrow. On his _**father's**_ desk. What had she been thinking when she surprised him with all that old-fashioned stuff? He couldn't and wouldn't hurt her feelings by telling her he didn't want to be surrounded by corporeal evidence of his grievously missed, beloved father – or that the legacy of the agency had been choking him his entire life.

But if Della wanted him to work on her case, then by God, he would summon every lesson his father had taught him about being a detective, and he would make her proud.

And make Perry Mason eat his words.

He possessed adequate enough acting skills to beg out of the late-night sets, admitting to having an unnerving confrontation with a drunk patron who took exception to the way he looked at his female companion during his last solo spot. Grabbing his sax and stuffing it into the velvet drawstring bag he preferred to use instead of a hard-shell case, Paul Thomas Drake, Jr. hotfooted it out of the Jazz Spot and drove straight home.

Alone.

And went to bed.

Alone.

Tomorrow he had to prove his worth to the woman who should have been his mother, and the man who if she had been his mother, would have been his father, instead of the terrific one he'd had. And that thought, as always, scared the hell out of him.

* * *

><p>Della arrived at The Drake Detective Agency at ten, surmising that she could get a head start on organizing Paul's filing system, which consisted primarily of folders and loose papers stacked on every conceivable flat surface and held down with a wide variety of items drafted into service as paperweights. That was why she had raided the storage unit four months ago. The boy needed filing cabinets and a decent desk, as well as a conference table. While she was in the unit, she dug out lamps, framed art, and a few chairs as well to add to the furniture mover's truck. There had been no good reason the furniture was not being used, considering the desk Junior was using dated from when he was ten and had announced he was going to be a writer and needed a desk, so Della and Perry bought him one. The desk was wobbly now, scratched and dinged, and she wanted it preserved for when Junior had a son of his own, who would be called Trey, carrying on the tradition of nicknames begun by Paul Drake Sr., who had referred to himself as 'Ace' and his namesake son as 'Deuce', which the boy didn't like at all. <em>"I'm a <em>_**junior**__," _he'd fumed_, "not a __**second**__."_ At least she was hopeful Paul Jr. would one day settle down, because she was spending a pretty penny having the desk repaired and refinished for Paul Drake III to be a figment of her imagination.

After unlocking the old frosted glass door, Della stood for a moment in the anteroom, inhaling the familiar scent of the small office. Vestiges of spicy cologne, a faint smell of tobacco mingled with the odor of…hamburgers. She knew what she smelled was probably a true figment of her imagination, but it was comforting to think those particular smells still clung to leather and wood.

The office had once been much larger, occupying two additional adjoining offices on either side. The senior Paul Drake had moved his agency to this building at the same time Perry was shutting down his practice. "_Change is good, Beautiful_," he'd said wistfully, the omnipresent cigarette dangling from his lips. "_I can't afford a suite of offices in the Brent Building without the ridiculous fees I charged Perry, but this building looks more like where you'd find a private investigative firm. Seedy. Mysterious. It suits me."_

Paul Drake had lived only two more years after Perry agreed to sit out the rest of Harvey's appointment on the Court of Appeals. The combination of too many cigarettes, a life-long poor diet, very little exercise, and the stress of funding his ex-wife's insatiable need for money, ostensibly 'for the kid', felling him in an instant. Della bitterly maintained Paul worked himself to death so as not to have to live with Myrtle, whom Della had dubbed a _'scheming little package'_ from the moment they met. Living separately from Myrtle was fine with Paul Sr. after discovering for himself just how hard and calculating she really was and finally confessing his secret family to Perry and Della, but she refused to divorce him for years, effectively using their son's well-being as a shield against losing her reliable meal ticket. The divorce she criminally delayed for a Los Angeles County record five years and nearly bested Harvey Sayers, was finalized when Paul Jr. was eight, a crushing settlement and ridiculous alimony negotiated, and joint physical custody awarded. It was joint custody that Myrtle had fought hard against but Paul insisted upon, and Harvey eventually won with a mountain of depositions and recommendations from the legal, medical, and psychology communities.

When Paul Jr. was twelve his mother began running around with a 'real estate speculator' who made no effort to disguise his dislike for children. She abruptly dropped a year-old petition to have her ex-husband's custody rights terminated and turned the boy over to him when the speculator decided to speculate in North Dakota and wouldn't allow her to bring her son along. One of Myrtle's triumphs in the divorce had been her alimony settlement, which was to endure until she remarried, and which she vowed never to do. The divorce attorneys sat down one more time to renegotiate the financial settlement so Myrtle would be free to fulfill Paul's greatest wish and get the hell out of California. While giving, giving, and giving to Myrtle, Paul Drake had somehow managed to build up an account with enough money to pay for his son to go to a very good college, and Myrtle took it, every penny of it, to North Dakota, along with alimony payments limited to when their son turned eighteen, due to a judge noted for being more sympathetic to the plight of divorced women than to the facts at hand. Paul pretended to be pleased with the new terms, but leaving the courtroom he walked with a decided stoop to his shoulders, a decent, talented man with the capacity to earn a significant income financially undone a second time by the scheming little package that had given him the best thing in his life.

That Paul Drake died of a massive heart attack at fifty-seven wasn't much of a surprise, and that his son never saw one penny of his school money wasn't either. It was, however, a tragic and sad atrocity that surrounded by some of the best legal minds in the country, the beneficiary on Paul's life insurance policy was overlooked, and Myrtle wound up with another substantial sum courtesy of the man Della furiously maintained she had single-handedly destroyed. The detective's liquid assets didn't add up to much, and out of sickening guilt Perry ponied up the money for Paul Jr. to attend college, but the boy wasn't a dedicated student, possessing a grade point average that could be demonstrated with one finger, and therefore the 'scholarship' had been rescinded. Della couldn't argue much with Perry about it given Paul's irresponsibility, despite her own feelings of guilt, but she spent far too many sleepless nights worrying about the boy, who refused any kind of legal help in extricating money from his mother, and didn't seem to care that he sporadically didn't have electricity or telephone service.

Three years ago Junior had begun 'reducing overhead' by refusing cases, which ticked off all of the veteran field operatives, who one-by-one either retired or secured jobs elsewhere rather than work for a kid, even the kid of their revered boss. Two of those veteran agents formed their own agency and took with them a few of the younger agents as well as almost the entire client base of the venerable Drake Detective Agency. Della had employed that new agency on a few occasions for official Gordon Industries business because Paul refused any of her 'sympathy hand-outs'.

Junior plodded on, taking small cases that paid the rent for his small office, and his even smaller apartment. He claimed to need time to write his novel and take a class (that he paid for himself and attended exactly twice), plus the music bug had bitten him again, so he wanted to explore how far he could go with that endeavor. The agency currently paid the bills, sort of, and while Paul Jr. wasn't certain being a private investigator was his life's calling no matter how much his father would have wanted it to be, he stuck with it, after a fashion, out of respect for the memory of his father, in his own way.

The condition of the office was far worse than Della remembered, the mountains of paperwork having been unloaded from the old furniture and piled onto the new, filing cabinets completely empty. She wished she had arrived much earlier. Perry would not like working in such clutter, and he would certainly say something disapproving to Junior, and the boy would get defensive, which would lead to an inevitable shouting match. She slipped out of her coat, hung it on the coat rack and stood for a moment contemplating where to begin to avoid that shouting match.

First things first, and that would be coffee. The only clean thing in the entire office proved to be the Mr. Coffee coffee maker Della had given Junior for Christmas two years ago. At least the boy had his priorities in line. She filled the pot from the drinking fountain in the hall and after a bit of scrounging, located the filters and a stash of expensive grounds. The miraculous little gadget hissed and gurgled as the fragrant lifeblood of all secretaries from time immemorial began trickling satisfyingly into the glass pot.

She decided to start with the piles on the desk so Perry would have a place to work. Moving the files brought on a fit of sneezing from all the dust, and she gave herself a serious talking-to for not bringing cleaning supplies with her, although she doubted whether the elbow grease of only one person could remove more than one layer of accumulated grime. Obviously the cleaning service had been part of Paul's overhead reduction long before the reduction of staff, and she had no choice but to bring one in now if there was to be peace between her investigator and her attorney. She managed to clear enough space to properly sort the files and piles, and was bent over digging through the bottom desk drawer looking for the agency's perpetual files when she became aware of someone standing in front of her.

"What are you doing?"

Della smiled fondly at the young man who was more like his father than he realized. "I thought I'd tidy up a bit before Perry got here."

"No, I mean what are you doing _**here**_?"

"I'm working, goose. Perry needs a secretary, and if I didn't allow anyone but me to be his secretary for all those years, I'm certainly not going to allow it now."

Paul grinned. She sure was a feisty little thing. "Okay, _**how**_ are you doing?"

Della sat down at the desk, holding a pasteboard file labeled _UTILITIES_ in bold black marker. It was empty. "I couldn't be in better hands."

Paul dropped his zippered document pouch on the desk, exactly where she had just cleared space to work, and moved over to the credenza to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Perry doesn't want me working on this case. Everything I do will be put under a microscope."

"Don't let him get you down, honey."

His own mother had never, ever, not once, called him 'honey'. He felt warm all over that this beautiful, audacious woman felt such affection for him. "He doesn't get me down. I'm used to him by now. You know I've always thought of Perry as my own personal Vince Lombardy. He motivates me to complete the eighty-yard pass in life…then yells at me for taking chances."

Della picked up a few files from the pile in front of her. "Perry doesn't yell. He barks."

Paul turned back to Della, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Are you handling all of this as well as you're coming across? Having him around again has to be hard for you, not to mention this whole being accused of murder gig."

"I'll let you know," she replied demurely, enigmatically. "What are these?"

Paul took the ratty manila folders from her. "My case files. Not exactly crimes of the century, but they pay the bills."

"Sure," she observed dryly, fanning an incriminating document under his nose. "And just what is this?"

Paul snatched the paper from her hand. "This," he confirmed sheepishly after briefly scanning the document, "is the shut-off notice from the phone company."

"Uh huh," Della murmured.

Before Paul could retort, the door opened and both knew that Perry had entered the outer reception area. He stood in the doorway, presence as engulfing as ever, surveying the shabby confines of The Drake Detective Agency with distaste.

"Just give me two hours," Della said hastily, "and you won't recognize the place."

"I don't recognize it now," Perry commented drolly, moving toward the small wooden conference table and sitting down in a straight-backed chair. He set a tri-fold portfolio in front of him and turned toward Paul and Della. "The preliminary hearing is set for next week. We don't have much time."

The attorney's last comment was made over Paul's eager declaration of "I'm available". _You lied to Della, _the writer/musician/private investigator told himself. _You've never gotten used to Perry Mason_. _You've just gotten good at hiding how inadequate he makes you feel. _ He unzipped the pouch and pulled out a manila folder. "Well, I've been busy this morning. Here is a copy of the police report on Arthur Gordon's murder, and an itemized list of the evidence being held in Property."

Paul stood expectantly beside Perry Mason as he glanced through the documents. The lawyer never looked at him. "We need to find out who bought the dress found in Della's trash can."

"Here, Paul, I have my receipt for the dress." Della pulled her purse toward her and rummaged through it, willing Perry to say something encouraging to the boy. Della insisted the dress couldn't have been hers – she had brought it home from the cleaners Thursday and saw it in the closet Friday evening when she changed from her work clothes, so Perry's thinking was another dress had been purchased specifically by the true murderer and exchanged while she was at the Gordon Estate after being summoned by Lt. Cooper.

"Track down everyone who bought that dress." Perry didn't look up from the police report. "And I mean everyone." Della's insistent belief that the dress found in her trash can was not the dress she bought needed to be delved into further. Secretly he thought it would be an incredibly simple task, as there couldn't have been too many women who had bought that hideous dress – at least he hoped not. He stared at a picture of it, and was of the opinion the macabre bloodstains had only improved the floral and tatted lace atrocity.

"How about a receipt for the shoes?" Paul asked.

Della once more scavenged in her purse.

"Need some help there, dear?"

"No thank you," Della said softly, fondly, handing him the department store receipt for her shoes.

"The sooner we have that information the better," Perry called after Paul as he headed for the office door. He set down the police file after the door closed with an emphatic bang. "I hope I'm doing the right thing with him."

"I'm the one who should be concerned, and I'm not," Della said brightly. "You'll see. He'll be just fine." She heaved a big sigh. "Now I have to get these files straightened out and put away, call in a cleaning crew, and order office supplies because if Paul owns a stapler, I can't find the darn thing."

Perry turned and appeared to really notice her for the first time. He got up and came over to the desk. "Della, I know we agreed you could play secretary, but remember that you are the client. Take it easy." He paused. "Please."

She frowned at him slightly, letting him know she didn't appreciate his words, which he knew she wouldn't, but he had to say them anyway. "I'd like to stay busy, Perry."

"In that case," Perry said quickly, eyes twinkling, "I need a detailed report on each member of the Gordon family, in particular information about their finances. Oh, and see what you can get on the housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries. From what I gather perusing the police report, her testimony could be dynamite." He turned abruptly and reseated himself at the conference table.

"That ought to keep my busy for a while." Della slowly got to her feet and leaned her hip against the desk, arms crossed, eyes misty as she studied his grand profile. "This is nice. Just like old times."

Perry looked at her over his shoulder and his features, once described by a court reporter as 'granite-like', softened considerably before turning back to the police file. Aware of her lingering stare, just seconds later he noisily closed the file, stood, and took a few steps toward where she was still leaning against the desk. He reached an arm out to her. "Della, I –" his words broke off as the door was flung open and a breathless, nearly hysterical woman burst into the reception area.

Well-padded, effusive, blonder-than-blonde, Gertrude Lade was framed by the doorway, hands on voluptuous hips. "Well, I never!"


	11. Chapter 11

TCOT Absurd Assumption C11

"Well, I never, Della Street!" Perry Mason's good-natured, romantically disposed former receptionist repeated.

Quick as a flash, Della picked up a random piece of paper and waved it at Gertie. "You're number one on my list. I was going to start making calls right after lunch."

Gertie propelled her ample curves toward the desk, unceremoniously pushing her employer from bygone days out of the way like so much clutter. Perry stifled a laugh as Della was quickly enveloped in an extravagantly demonstrative hug. "The police can't be serious arresting you! And what on earth is Jack Welles doing handing your case off to that horrid Barbara Scott? She gives women a bad name, picking on other women who don't deserve it. How are you? I called and called, and you didn't answer! When did you get an answering machine? I drove by the house, and you weren't there, so I thought to myself where would you be, and the only place I could think of was this office." She took a huge breath. "Hello, Mr. Mason. I won't go so far as to say it's nice to see you, but I'm okay with you being here if Della is."

Perry accepted the fact that Gertie still didn't forgive him for closing his practice, despite the very generous severance package he had given her, and that the fact his promise to Harvey Sayers had ultimately separated him from Della didn't play well for her, either. "Gertie, I can't put into words how I feel about seeing you again."

Gertie didn't release Della from the vice-like hug, but merely turned both of them toward the attorney. "What you did pushed you up a couple of notches on my list, Mr. Mason, but not far enough for me to be your friend again. You'd better take care of our girl, that's all I have to say."

If only that was all Gertie would say. "I promise to take very good care of Miss Street, Gertie. You don't have anything to worry about."

Gertie released Della and almost reluctantly offered her hand to Perry Mason. "Don't think I don't mean what I say," Gertie told him, an ominous overtone in her Betty Boop voice. "I may be what they call a grey-haired old lady, but I can still hurt you."

Perry laughed out loud. "Gertie, you are anything but a grey-haired old lady, and I know without a doubt you can hurt me."

Gertie glared at him, then nodded. "Don't you forget it, mister. Now, what's the plan for ending this travesty of justice as quickly as possible?"

* * *

><p>Perry sat back and watched Della as she ate a turkey, avocado, and alfalfa sprout sandwich with one hand and efficiently dispatched with the mountains of paperwork that apparently comprised the sum total of Paul Jr.'s caseload since he took over the agency with the other hand. At one point the stacks surrounding her were so high he could barely see the top of her head, and if she hadn't sneezed occasionally or every now and then made an exasperated <em>tsking <em>sound, he might not have known she was seated there at the desk.

Hell, that wasn't the truth at all. It had never been the truth, no matter what he told himself.

In fact, he was highly conscious of _**exactly**_ where she was, at all times, in every way possible.

Uncomfortably so.

Della had admitted once early in their romantic relationship that she knew precisely when he entered a room, that the small hairs at the back of her neck prickled and her breathing became shallow because the force of his presence sucked up most of the oxygen around him. More than a bit overwhelmed by her confession, he had laughed it off with insolent discomposure, and then proceeded to give her possibly the greatest physical pleasure she had ever known, because that's how he let her know when she had astonished him. Now, many years later, regret was overpowering that he hadn't admitted that even in another room, he could smell her, could taste her essence in the air, could feel her heart beating. She would have liked to hear that.

Perry knew he had loved Della well, because loving Della Street was the easiest, most staggeringly satisfying thing he had ever done in his life, and when he enjoyed something, he gave it everything he had. He was confident he had been good at loving Della because he enjoyed it so much, despite the inevitable rough patches that popped up every three years or so. All couples went through that, didn't they? He wished he had been as brave and unguarded as Della early in their intimate exploration of one another and used his formidable arsenal of words to admit that he drew breath because of her, that she was his catalyst for getting out of bed every day, that she was the reason he could honestly say he was a happy man. It had taken him several years to put into is own words how elementally connected he felt to her, and she had cried, which upset him, and maybe that was why he hadn't told her sooner.

He looked down at the 'California cuisine' roast beef sandwich she had brought him from a small deli at the end of the block. California beef, California cheese, California lettuce and those damn California alfalfa sprouts were trucked in from small outlying farms just so an upstart deli could dole out a teaspoon of 'special homemade' horseradish mayo on dense whole wheat bread, and charge five dollars for the experience of eating healthier. Clay's roast beef sandwich, served on a buttery toasted hoagie bun, slathered in authentic honest-to-goodness oily mayonnaise and delectably pungent prepared horseradish that dripped down your hand when you bit into it had cost less than two dollars. Perry and Paul used to rate sandwiches on a 'napkin system': the goodness of a sandwich directly correlated to the number of napkins required to eat it in a civilized manner. Clay's roast beef sandwich typically required four napkins (four and a half if ordered with melted cheddar cheese), which put it into the excellent category. Perry doubted he would need a single napkin for the abomination in front of him now.

"How is your sandwich?"

Perry guiltily bit into the sandwich, and was surprised to discover that it was delicious. "Fine," he grunted, enjoying how the mild, crisp sprouts mellowed the sting of finely grated horseradish. He took another bite, and it was better than the first. Potato chips or fries would have been nice, but instead there was a pile of celery sticks. _**California**_ celery sticks. The napkin ranking system was exposed as seriously flawed since this sandwich would require only one and it was definitely excellent.

"It's not one of Clay's special creations, but it will tide you over until dinner."

Being uncoupled for the better part of three years hadn't dulled her ability to read his mind. Her telepathic skills had always simultaneously spooked and aroused him. "It really is good," he insisted. "Gertie hasn't changed a bit."

Della set down her sandwich and touched a napkin to her lips. She had managed to eat Clay's four-napkin roast beef sandwich with only two napkins, he remembered. It was a serious blow to realize the napkin system had been empirically dispossessed.

"Gertie is a joyous constant of life. Thank heaven."

Gertie had stayed for only a few minutes, just long enough to be brought up to speed on Della's case. "I wish I could stay longer, Della, and help you out, because Lord knows you look like you could use it, but I have a date for lunch." Her creamy blonde complexion suddenly went rosy. "I met him at Evelyn's salon of all places. She cuts men's hair now, too, you know. Well, anyway, I was early for my appointment and Evelyn was finishing up Al's haircut – that's his name, Al, Albert Pajor – and the three of us got to talking and he asked if I'd like to go out to lunch someday and that day is today. We're meeting at _Tony's_. Remember how Mr. Drake liked to eat at _Tony's_? I sure do miss that man, so I hope I don't get too sentimental in the restaurant. That would be hard to explain to Al on a first date. Maybe we should go somewhere else. I'll probably have a salad and no dessert, because this dress is a little tight. I shouldn't have worn it, but it's such a nice dress. Do you think I should have a cocktail? I know wine is acceptable nowadays at lunch, but wine gives me a headache. I think I'll have iced tea instead. Where is Paul Jr.?"

Della hugged Gertie, beautifully covering her urge to laugh, head spinning. "You go out to lunch and have a marvelous time with Al, Gertie. I'm fine here. I'm calling in a cleaning crew for the real dirt, and once I get these files organized I'll be able to concentrate on other things. The boss already has an assignment for me, and when Paul returns from digging up information, I'll have even more to do."

Gertie held Della at arm's length, her big, pale blue eyes searching Della's face thoroughly for any sign of stress, but all she saw was her patented calm expression. She glanced over her shoulder at Perry Mason briefly, then leaned in and whispered, "Are you really doing okay, Della, with all of this? With _**him**_?"

Della smiled. "Yes, Gertie," she replied in a whisper as well. "I'm really doing okay with all of this. Even with _**him**_. Now go. I don't want you to be late for lunch with Al."

Gertie's smile was quick and a mile wide. "I have a good feeling about him. He could be the one, Della. We have tons in common. Maybe I will have dessert after all so lunch will take longer. I'll call you."

And she had exited in as much of a whirlwind as she had arrived, leaving Perry and Della completely drained, as per usual, but in a good way.

"Don't take this the wrong way, or read anything deep into it, because I have nothing but the purest of intentions – why has Gertie never married?" Perry asked. He finished the sandwich and with great attention to detail, folded the waxed deli paper it had been wrapped in around the pile of celery sticks. Celery sticks were meant to be used as a stir stick in a bloody Mary. Or noshed on with olives while drinking martinis, preferably slathered in chive-laced cream cheese.

"Gertie is convinced that men don't like her."

"What?" Perry exploded. "She's the most likeable…she's had more dates…"

Della laughed at his confusion. "She is likeable – no, she's lovable. She's a hopeless romantic, a total clown, and she would do anything for a friend, but what we find so endearing about Gertie is exactly what sends men running. It takes a special man to understand and appreciate Gertie, and she just hasn't found him yet. Maybe Albert Pajor is that special man. She never gives up."

"I apologize on behalf of my colossally dimwitted gender," Perry said solemnly. "Some man could have been very happy for a long time with that woman."

"You are a nice man, Perry Mason." She held up her hand as he began working on a protest. "I won't let anyone know the truth. Your secret is still safe with me."

Perry turned fully in the chair to face her. The piles of files no longer hid her from him and he had to smile. That's what Della did. Had always done. She made him smile. From the moment she'd stepped into his office all those years ago, she had made him smile just to look at her. Today she looked young and fresh, dressed in a much more flattering outfit than the day before, something softer and flowing, jewelry minimal and consisting primarily of items he had gifted her, including a bracelet that would now be referred to as 'vintage' – a heavy link gold chain with two charms dangling from it that he'd given her on the second anniversary of her employment, the night he finally 'caught' the love of his life. Well, when he'd given it to her there had been only one charm. The second charm had been added later.

He cleared his throat. He had to stay focused. The police report he'd been studying yielded a bona fide mountain of circumstantial evidence against Della and he had to stay the course for her sake, had to rearrange the pieces so the true events of the night Arthur Gordon was murdered would be revealed. That's what he did. He did it well. Or at least he had done it well at one time. The master puzzle-solver. "When do you think you'll be able to get me information on the Gordon family?"

Della didn't look up from the file she was perusing. "I'll have it for you tomorrow morning. By the way, just as I was leaving the house this morning a messenger from Ken Braddock's office dropped off a letter addressed to you."

"For heaven's sake, Della," Perry said, exasperation creeping into his voice, "that was almost four hours ago."

Della looked up and blinked. Yes, she should have handed the letter to him the moment he arrived. Except that she was preoccupied with the filth surrounding her, Paul's need for a little ego-boosting, Gertie's sudden appearance, the calls to several cleaning services before she found one that could send a crew over that afternoon, and then her walk to the deli for sandwiches. And the biggest reason of all – Perry's aversion to mail.

"Let me see it," Perry said tersely, holding out his hand, wondering why she hadn't opened it herself.

Della retrieved the letter from her purse, and since Perry remained seated, unless she folded it into an airplane and tossed it, she would have to get up and walk it to him, which she did. As she turned back toward the desk, Perry grabbed her wrist.

"That wasn't like you. Are you sure you can handle helping with your own defense?" Maybe he was transferring his own thoughts of inadequacy to her, but it truly wasn't like her to be absent-minded.

She looked down at him steadily and shook herself free from his grasp. "I can handle it," she said crisply, moving away from him back to the desk.

Perry tore the envelope open with his fingers since Della had yet to unearth a letter opener, if in fact Paul owned one, and the office supplied had yet to be delivered. He unfolded the single page of fine watermarked stationery and gave it a cursory glance. "Della, did you have any idea you were named in Arthur Gordon's will?" Oh, this was not good, not good at all in so many ways. And why did Ken Braddock address the letter to him, but send a messenger to Della's house? It was an odd way to handle such matters.

Della's knees instantly turned to jelly and she sat down, hard, in the chair. She shook her head dazedly. "No, I did not."

"This letter is notification that my client, Miss Della Katherine Street, is named a beneficiary under Arthur Gordon's will and as such is expected to be present at the reading, which is to take place tomorrow morning at the Gordon estate." He looked up at her, suspicion in his eyes. "You promised to be completely honest. Tell me. Was there more than friendship between you and Gordon?" His mind jumped fleetingly to the computer in Della's den and the many business trips she'd taken with her boss.

She shook her head again, less dazed, becoming cross with Perry. "No. He was married."

"_**Could**_ there have been something more than friendship between you and Gordon if he wasn't married? Tell me the truth, Della."

"No, there couldn't have been something more than friendship between me and Arthur Gordon. I went down that path. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say."

Perry's lips tightened involuntarily into a thin line. "Della, I don't have to tell you that if anyone witnessed signs of affection between the two of you that could be construed as more than friendly – "

"No one did," she said quietly. "Arthur Gordon was even more irascible than you as an employer. His temperament was no-nonsense and lacked humor. Some people would describe him as all business – cold and calculating – but effective."

"You said you cared about him. How could you be friends with a man you've described as difficult, humorless, ruthless, cold, and calculating?" _Or more implausibly,_ _how could you have at one time fallen in love with a man often described as 'granite-hard' and considered ethically bereft?_

"Arthur was tough, but fair. If he liked or respected a person he was loyal and very generous. He let his guard down every once in a while, and I was honored he trusted me with insight into his personal life. I think he had been reassessing his life right about the time he hired me, and even though he couldn't fundamentally change who he was, he tried to add a little more…_**humanity**_ to his dealings with people. That is, with people other than his family. I suspect his children didn't fare so well in his reassessment. Except perhaps for Laura – who reminded him of his first wife, so he allowed her extra latitude."

"And Paula? How did she fare in his reassessment?" Perry picked up a pen and began scrawling notes on a legal pad. In years past Della would have been scribbling pothooks and curly q's in those ubiquitous notebooks and typing them up for him in a language he could understand. Lord, how he missed those days. Was he a fool for thinking he could recapture even a fraction of those days?

"He moved her out to Century City," Della said brusquely. "Draw your own conclusions."

Perry leaned back in the chair and regarded her solemnly with lowered lids. "This doesn't look good at all. When do you think his will was last updated?"

"Heavens," Della exclaimed, "how would I know that?"

"As my secretary you knew whenever I revisited my will."

She smiled at him with sweetly patient amusement. "That's because our relationship was very different from my relationship with Arthur. You _**told **_me whenever you updated your will. And I wrote the check for Jim's fee out of your personal account, remember? I didn't have that kind of relationship with Arthur. We didn't coffee-klatch or discuss our innermost desires over a bottle of _Pinot Noir_. I dealt solely with business matters. We shared an administrative assistant, and his personal invoices went through her and then directly to accounting." _How does __**your**__ will read now…_ _don't go there, Della!_

Perry didn't like the way she almost over-emphasized her relationship with Gordon as being strictly business, but that may have been purely his personal feelings getting in the way of his duties as her attorney. He needed to have a stern conversation with himself. "Beginning four years ago."

"Beginning four years ago," she admitted after a moment's hesitation.

"Do you remember ever approving any invoices from his personal attorney for services in connection with amending his will when you were his personal secretary?" He'd better have that conversation with himself soon, because her slight hesitation clenched at his innards.

Della's smooth forehead furrowed in a slight frown. "Y-yes. Ken Braddock had just been retained following the retirement of Arthur's long-time attorney. He and Arthur revisited most of his private holdings."

"When?"

"About six years ago."

Perry made a note of the date. "That's the last time you are personally aware that Arthur Gordon changed his will?"

"Yes," she stated confidently.

"Good. You may have to testify to that. And be convincing." His best defense might very well be Della's impression on the judge unless he could poke enough holes in or cast enough doubt on the Prosecution's evidence. He had such a short time in which to find the piece of the puzzle that could allow him to present either an alternate hypothesis or outright finger the true murderer, because he was going to end Della's exigency at the preliminary hearing. No way would he allow her to endure a jury trial. He suddenly felt queasy. Years ago adrenalin would have been coursing through his veins and he would have stayed up for days chasing down that elusive piece of the puzzle, fighting tooth and nail for his client. Why was he so trepidacious now faced with his most important case? Had his confidence finally confronted stakes that were simply too high?

"I had no idea the content of his will," Della pointed out. "I _**have**_ no idea the content of his will. I can't imagine why I am named as a beneficiary. Unless…"

"Unless…?"

"Unless I'm mentioned in regard to Gordon Industries or the Foundation. The company was his life, and I think he would have tried to protect it in all the ways he could. None of his children are capable of taking over. And we're well aware of how he felt about Paula's inadequacy to continue running the Foundation."

"Exactly when did Gordon make those changes you talked about – in particular the decision to install you as Director of the Foundation?"

"He approached me about it a little over two weeks ago. There was to be a formal announcement next week."

_And were you going to tell me of this momentous achievement in your life, Della? _He directed his attention to jotting down more notes, double underlining them. _Check date of will__!_ "If his children weren't expected to take over the company, who would be named his successor as President and CEO?"

"Most likely it will be Curtis Fielding. Arthur brought him on board as Vice President six years ago during that reflective phase. He's sharp. He'll do a good job with the company. Does the letter list other beneficiaries?"

"You know such letters are specific to the addressed beneficiary. How did you get along with Fielding?"

"Very well. We worked together quite a bit, as could be expected. He's tough, but not the same kind of tough that Arthur is. That Arthur was. He's more accessible. And no, there was absolutely no chance of a personal relationship with Curtis. Trust me. Absolutely, positively none whatsoever."

"Six years ago, eh?" He made a mental note to ask why she so vehemently denied the possibility of a relationship with this Curtis Fielding fellow. "The same time at which you were last aware Gordon revisited his will?"

"Yes, but I don't see how that – "

"Della, we have to explore every thread. You can't let personal feelings get in the way of discovery."

Della sighed. "This will give Barbara Scott the motive she was missing, won't it?"

Perry dropped his pen and looked at her with open tenderness. "We won't know that, my dear, until the will is read."

She cleared her throat with some uneasiness. "It may not be the best time to tell you this, but I spoke with Henny last night. She and Carter are flying in tomorrow."

Perry ran his hand over his face. "I doubt anything I say will make a difference in Henny's plans."

Della ventured a smile. "I daresay my brother's wife is even more stubborn than I am."

Perry smiled back at her. "That," he said, "is impossible."


	12. Chapter 12

TCOT Absurd Assumption C12

"I'm not looking for applause," Paul Drake Jr. complained, tripping alongside Perry Mason's long-legged strides. "But this is a break in the case, wouldn't you agree?"

Perry didn't answer right away, his mind elsewhere, begrudging Paul's little crisis his total concentration. He'd just returned to the office from his terribly interesting meeting with the grieving widow Paula Gordon and her husband's attorney Ken Braddock and wanted to discuss what he'd found out and what he was beginning to suspect with Della, but the telephone call summoning him to the scene of one Bobby Lynch's violent death demanded his presence immediately. He'd barely been able to issue a satisfied grunt about the miraculous transformation the office had undergone in his absence before heading back out, and couldn't get Della's undisguised disappointment out of his thoughts, because he wasn't sure if she was disappointed with him or upset about Paul being at the scene of what looked suspiciously like another murder. It seemed that whenever they were about to vault a hurdle in creating a livable, workable relationship, something happened that set them back at the starting block. This time it was the intrepid private investigator he'd hired who was to blame for knocking over a gate and resetting the race, as well as possibly with regard to Della's predicament. He could tell Della sensed it as well, and was as frustrated as he.

"It would be a break if we could ask Lynch questions about Arthur Gordon's murder in a visitor's room at the LA County Jail. But we can't, because he's dead."

"Don't blame me. I didn't shoot the guy."

Perry abruptly stopped walking and Paul had to execute an adroit sidestep to avoid a collision with the attorney's broad back. "No, you followed him and he caught on to you. I hope I don't need to remind you how careless that was on your part. This Bobby Lynch fellow has to be connected to Della's case somehow."

"What was I supposed to do? _**He**_ was tagging _**me**_. I made him immediately, led him on, but when he realized I'd made him, he got sloppy and I managed to give him the slip. I tailed him here and he tried to run me over." The last words were delivered almost sullenly, with only a hint of defensiveness. Paul wisely withheld his suspicion that it must have been Bobby Lynch who tried to run him down behind the _Jazz Spot_, because he hadn't told Perry about that particular incident, and telling him now would be like pouring jet fuel on a fire. He was at minimum smarter than that. The resultant explosion would be quick and violent and lethal in regard to his standing as a private investigator, even with Della's considerable influence over Perry Mason. As it was, the lawyer's temper simmered so close to the surface already Paul was afraid the fumes of his emotional disquiet might spontaneously combust.

"You're lucky Lt. Cooper didn't take you in with him. You have some explaining to do, young man."

"I've already given the police my entire story." _Old man_, he seethed inwardly. "I didn't do anything wrong here, Perry. I was almost a victim myself, for crying out loud. You know what? This _**is**_ a huge break in the case, even if you won't admit it. And I wasn't hurt, in case you were wondering."

Perry Mason simply walked away from his best friend's son. "Get all the information you can on this Bobby Lynch. I'll see you at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow in your office. Don't be late."

* * *

><p>"He's late," Perry announced, without looking up from the file he was reading. Della's information about the family was thorough and impeccably presented, as per usual, and he couldn't have been more effusive in his praise for her efforts. What a complicated family Della had involved herself in by accepting the position of Arthur Gordon's administrative assistant. Each child's deficiencies and dysfunctions jumped out plainly from every neatly typed page.<p>

Katherine, the eldest, beautiful, cynical, a lush in the making prone to morbid observations presented as deprecating humor, lived alone in a large Malibu beach house. Openly hostile toward her father, she'd spent every cent inherited from her mother's personal wealth on the house, and routinely demanded more than a monthly trust fund allowance by telling anyone who would listen that her father had killed her mother as surely as if he had tied the rope around her neck himself. Arthur Gordon refused to play that game with his daughter and never gave in to her demands.

Laura, the youngest, a delicate, timid, emotional tintype of her mother, touched a soft spot buried deep within Arthur Gordon, because she had once received a rather substantial amount of money from him over and above her allowance. But even with the supplemental income from his father-in-law, her playboy husband, having quickly run through his wife's inheritance, couldn't live within the confines of her monthly trust fund disbursement. Arthur Gordon had forcefully proclaimed his distaste for Laura's husband, a bogus tennis pro who used his limited talent for the sport and his wife's money to wine, dine, and bed as many gullible young women as possible with false promises of stardom on the tennis circuit.

Then there was David, the handsome and feckless middle child and only son, drifting through life on his good looks, a modicum of charm, his trust fund (after blowing through his inheritance in Las Vegas on his twenty-first birthday), and the promise of greater wealth when his father departed this earth. Impatient for that inevitability, he gambled, and lost – badly. Daily life for him now consisted of dodging those he owed significant sums of money to while maintaining the façade he had built within a certain social clique of Los Angeles. Unlike his sisters, David didn't ask his father for more money – at least Della had neither first-hand knowledge of such a request, nor been able to find anyone else who believed David had ever admitted his problems and groveled at the feet of his father.

Paula Gordon's story was held no surprises for Perry. Arthur Gordon had been her third husband by the age of thirty-two, each one wealthier than the last. She had deviated from her methodical pursuit of becoming a socialite of the highest regard while spending money hand-over-fist with her marriage to Arthur Gordon in two respects: he was much younger than her previous husbands, and she actually voluntarily held a job as the Director of her husband's philanthropic foundation, drawing a yearly stipend based upon a small percentage of approved projects. As an administrator Paula Gordon was a DISASTER (Della's own editorial enhancement), and on several occasions her husband's Executive Assistant had to step in and calm the waters. It was one such calming endeavor that introduced Della to professional cause promoter Asher Langlois, Perry knew, but that was nothing to be explored at the present time.

During his brief meeting with Ken Braddock and Paula Gordon the previous day, Perry had asked the widow of Arthur Gordon why her husband was going to remove her as Director of the Foundation. The bemused non-answer he received – it was a '_**private **_matter' – told him more than she had probably intended to reveal, as did her subsequent sarcastic assertion that her husband didn't need a reason to behave badly. Then Perry dared to interject Della into the conversation, and Paula rocketed into a diatribe against her husband's Executive Assistant in which she called Della 'insane' and claimed she had manipulated Arthur because she wanted him for herself. And when she realized she wasn't going to get Arthur, Della had done a 'lunatic, obscene' thing and murdered him. Perry couldn't wait until Paula Gordon took the stand. He wouldn't object to one single outlandish accusation, because she made very little sense and had no concrete evidence of anything she said. He would eat her alive on cross-examination.

"He's late," Perry repeated a bit louder, emerging from his divergent thoughts after realizing Della hadn't responded, even though she was seated directly across the table from him, going over the Property list one more time, two tiny vertical lines between her wide eyes letting him know something worried her.

Paul Drake breezed into the office at that moment. It was ten-oh-five. "I don't think you'll mind I'm a little bit late when you get a look at this report from the police lab." He performed a comical double take at the altered condition of his office, the absence of files and papers, the gleam of fine old wood, the framed picture of his father prominently displayed on the desk. The desk which Perry Mason apparently didn't want to sit at, either. He wondered if Perry didn't want to for the same reasons he didn't want to himself. Maybe the cantankerous attorney had a few human feelings after all. Paul handed Perry a manila folder. "Here's everything there is to know about Bobby Lynch."

Perry immediately buried his nose in the file, barely acknowledging Paul.

"He was shot with a thirty-two caliber handgun, right through the heart," Paul continued. "I saw the flash of a shiny gun, maybe silver plated, before I took a dive off the ramp."

"Bobby Lynch was a naughty boy," Perry observed thoughtfully, almost to himself. "The last time he was in prison he stabbed a fellow inmate while serving time for knifing a tavern-owner." He closed the file and looked up. "Arthur Gordon was stabbed."

"What are you getting at?" Paul asked.

"I'm getting at that I believe Bobby Lynch may have killed Arthur Gordon." A shiver slithered up and down his spine. This felt right. This was something he could work with.

"But Arthur was killed by a woman," Della pointed out, setting aside the evidence report but not the two worry lines.

"No," Perry contradicted slowly, "the killer is assumed to be a woman based on the housekeeper's description. Mrs. Jeffries briefly saw someone of your general description from a distance in poor lighting, wearing a dress she recognized as one she'd seen you wear." He opened the folder again and pulled out Bobby Lynch's most recent mug sheet. "Look here…Bobby Lynch was five feet six, a hundred and forty pounds. He could have fit into that dress and from a distance passed for a woman."

"Are you suggesting that Lynch killed Gordon in drag? Dressed as Della?" Paul asked, excitement creeping into his words at the daring thought.

"Are you going to announce Bobby Lynch's vital statistics in open court?" Della asked in alarm, those two little lines deepening between anxious eyes.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting, Paul." Perry smiled reassuringly at Della. "How about I refer to him as a 'slightly built man'?"

Paul Drake whistled, and both Perry and Della were startled by how similar the sound was to the one his father had habitually made. "That's quite a theory, Perry."

"Where are you getting information like this, Paul?"

"From a friend in the department. I told you I had good contacts," Paul said quickly, leaving out the details of how deftly he conned Sgt. Stratton, his old high school 'buddy' into giving him everything he wanted, just like in high school when Stratton had been the definition of a dumb jock. "Which reminds me – the police located the hotel Bobby Lynch was staying in and this friend of mine will be there shortly to toss the joint. I should be able to get access to his room while the detectives are there." He looked at his watch. "I'd better get moving."

"What time is the reading of the will, Della?" Perry sat with his back again to Paul, who stood behind him, expectantly. "And what time are we picking up your brother and sister-in-law?"

"The will reading is at eleven." She paused. "And we pick up Carter and Henny at four-forty." She lifted herself slightly from her chair to look over Perry's head as Paul gave up on any acknowledgement from the attorney and headed toward the anteroom. "Nice work, Paul," she called after him.

Paul Drake Jr. gave Della Street a jaunty salute and stuck his tongue out at the back of Perry's head before yanking open the door and plunging into the corridor. Della sat back down with a sigh and regarded her attorney over the typewriter, eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Hmmm?" Perry replied to her silent query, studying the mug shot of Bobby Lynch closely, becoming convinced he had murdered Arthur Gordon. But now the question was, what connection could a two-bit loser like Bobby Lynch have to a tycoon like Arthur Gordon or anyone close to Arthur Gordon?

"Don't you think so?"

"Think what?" Perry set the file down and removed his reading glasses.

"That Paul has done nice work."

"Yes, I think Paul has done nice work."

"Then why didn't you mention it?"

Perry leaned back in the wooden chair, the tiniest of smiles twitching across his lips, trying to be crusty but not quite putting it across. "He's still on the case, isn't he?"

"You couldn't compliment me enough about the background files, but you can't give one lousy 'atta boy' to Paul for all he's done? I'm very satisfied with my detective, but I'm a little bit ticked off at my attorney right now."

Perry gave her a surprised look. "At me? What for?"

Della sprang from the chair and headed quickly for the corner of the office, behind the desk, near the window. She fingered the drapes, remembering how Paul Sr. had howled his protest about them. "_For the love of Mike, Della, I'm a detective! It's a rough and tumble profession and I have a certain reputation to live up to. Detectives do not have red flowered curtains!"_ She had won the skirmish, of course, and on those afternoons when the intense California sun streamed directly onto his back, cutting right through the bent, sagging, circa 1942 metal blinds he considered 'rough and tumble' enough for a detective, Paul Drake was thankful to be able to draw the thermal curtains for a couple hours of relief when they would no longer lower all the way. "You aren't making the slightest attempt to get along with Paul. He's willing to let bygones be bygones, but you're holding on to some grudge like an adolescent." That wasn't technically true, because Paul was holding on to a few of his own grudges, but she doubted Perry would realize that was the basis of the boy's insolence.

"I'm not the one who stuck out my tongue," Perry responded. _And I'm not the one holding a grudge over something that's none of my damn business._

Della spun to gape at him. "How could you possibly know…" her words trailed off as a slow, satisfied grin appeared on his face. "You shouldn't be so proud of a lucky guess."

"You shouldn't be so defensive of such an _**adolescent**_ antic."

She really didn't like it when he turned her own words against her to make a valid point. It was a rudimentary trick of cross-examination and he knew she didn't like it when he used it on her, just like when he answered a question with another question. "You're so concerned about my well-being," she all but grumbled. "But the way you treat Paul is causing me more stress than all I'm up against right now being accused of murder."

"I know what I'm doing, Della," Perry said very quietly. Now that he had something real to work with, a piece of the puzzle that could prove the prosecution had forced other pieces to fit where they didn't belong, his confidence as an effective criminal attorney was gaining traction. And he needed the boy – needed Paul – to live up to his self-glorification, because no matter how history might be written, Perry Mason's accomplishments had often been the direct result of what Paul Drake and Della Street contributed. Now when it counted most, Paul had to deliver, and deliver big.

Della crossed her arms, hugging her waist. "I know you do," she replied, even more quietly. "There is no one better than you when it comes to defending someone accused of murder, but Perry, I don't especially like how you're treating Paul."

"I won't molly-coddle him, Della. You yourself said he wasn't a boy any longer, but when I treat him like an adult you accuse me of being too tough on him. He's doing something very important for me and he has to understand I expect nothing but his best efforts _**at all times**_. If he wants to ever be hired again, he needs to please Counsel."

"Counsel needs to knock that chip off his shoulder." _If he ever wants to be hired again?_

"I don't have a chip on my shoulder. It's the boy who has a chip on his shoulder."

"A Perry Mason-sized chip I'd say," Della drawled with wicked insight.

"Della, I'm not going to put a gold star on the boy's forehead every time he does what I ask him to do. He's still on the case, therefore I must approve of what he's done so far. He's bright enough to figure that out. And so are you."

"He's not a mind-reader and you are one inscrutable s.o.b., Counselor."

"Then by all means you compliment him all you want, Mama Bear." He lifted one side of his mouth in a lopsided smile. "I will withhold my praise until I feel he's legitimately earned it."

"You used to compliment his father. All you had to say was 'Good work, Paul,' and he'd grin like a ten-year old."

"Not when he first started working for me. I rode him hard. He had to prove himself, just like Junior has to prove himself. Paul developed into a topnotch investigator with a lot of confidence, but it took time. He didn't acquire that confidence by making puppy-dog eyes at me, wagging his tail, and begging for a pat on the head. He acquired it with a lot of good, smart, hard work, and I rewarded him handsomely for it."

"You complimented me. From the very first day I worked for you, you complimented almost everything I did, just like this morning."

"I guess you don't remember how I put you through the wringer just like Paul, but I complimented you when you did things that weren't expected of you. And when you ably performed the duties on your job description, I raised your salary more quickly and more often than any other secretary I'd ever had." _I also complimented you because I was hopelessly in love with you and wanted you desperately. _She might just throw something at him if he admitted that.

Della relaxed against the credenza, resisting the lazy smile nearly as contagious as his dangerously dimpled grin. "You did do that often," she admitted, growing uncomfortably warm with an enlivened awareness of him. "Which I appreciated greatly, by the way."

"You were worth every penny, and more," he said with a vehemence that made her even warmer.

If she explored his response, they could wind up in very dangerous waters indeed – on top of Paul's desk possibly, _in flagrant delicto_ as she'd imagined them atop her kitchen counter. She studied the tips of her shoes in silence, wishing she could fan herself.

"What did you do for dinner last night?"

Della looked up at him, stupendously grateful for the shift in topic. "I went out with Vi to a restaurant at Marineland." She had first hung around the office until past six, hoping he would breeze back in or at least call after pulling Paul out of his situation, making herself late for her dinner date with Vi.

"Vi? Oh yes, your agent friend. How is she, and I mean really?" He had called the office at six-fifteen after finishing with Lt. Cooper at the scene of Bobby Lynch's shooting, and when she didn't answer had called the house. Fourteen times between six-twenty and ten he'd called her house, and each time her recorded voice had greeted him and he had hung up. He'd dined alone in the hotel dining room, taken a long shower, and then sat on the bed obsessively running through the channels on the television between calls to Della.

"Socko," Della said with a quick grin, playing along. She hadn't seen Vi in several weeks, their schedules at odds of late, so dinner had been a lengthy gabfest Della enjoyed thoroughly, and she hadn't returned home until after ten.

"That was a fun night*, Della," Perry said wistfully. "You were such a brat, and so damn funny. You killed me when you one-upped Tragg's one-up of my 'here's to crime' toast."

"We needed a fun night to relieve all the tension of the case. I definitely liked Tragg and Paul fighting over who would dance with me first, and I mean really. Oh, definitely." Vi still peppered her speech with hyperbolic Hollywood adverbs, recently adding 'totally' and 'awesome' to her vocabulary, and Della had laughed heartily at hearing her fifty-five year old friend declare something to be 'totally awesome'.

"Tragg was pining for you, trying to decide if he should marry Mildreth Faulkner, or attempt to lure you away from me one more time."

Della snickered. "Don't be silly. Tragg wasn't pining over me in the least. He married Mildreth six weeks later," Della reminded him. "He wanted information and thought I had the information he wanted, so he flirted and was outrageous in his compliments. It was nice." She let out a small sigh. "A fun night. Things were definitely different then."

"How about tonight? What are the plans after we pick up your brother and Henny?"

Della quickly averted her eyes and shrugged. "Nothing big. Home and a quiet dinner. Henny thinks she's cooking tonight, but I told her she has another think coming. Aggie will stop by to check on me because she and the other girls made a pact that one of them would check on me from now until the preliminary hearing, even though I'll be surrounded by family. As well as cops and reporters. Did you see the unmarked car parked at the curb around the corner with two detectives hunched down in the seat? I walked all the way around the building to get to the deli at noon just so they would have an opportunity to stretch their legs."

Perry grinned. Lucky cops, pulling the detail to keep tabs on Della Street. "Have you spoken with Mae?"

Della's expression brightened. "Yes, actually I called while the cleaning crew was here yesterday and had twenty minutes of lucid conversation with her. She thinks you're crazy for stepping down from the bench, and hopes you remember how to be a lawyer. You'll have her to answer to if I'm not acquitted."

Perry laughed. "That's just the incentive I need to return to form as quickly as possible. I learned many years ago not to disappoint Mae." He locked his gaze with hers. "You will be acquitted, Della."

"Of course I will."

"And I'll get you acquitted _**my**_ way."

"Of course you will. That's why I decided to hire you after you quit your job." She treated him to her most dazzling smile. "We need to leave now. It's a twenty-five minute drive to the Gordon estate, and we don't want to lose the detectives in traffic."

Perry helped Della into her coat and turned off the lights in the office. "If you don't mind the presumption of inviting myself to dinner, I volunteer my limited culinary talents for the evening. I think I could come up with a passable meal for the weary travelers, and I'll even suspend the rule of 'I cooked, you clean'."

Della placed her hand on his arm briefly. "I don't mind at all," she said quietly.

* * *

><p><em>*<em>_The 'fun night' referred to is from __**TCOT Haunted Husband**__ and is one of my all-time favorite Lt. Tragg scenes. The toast goes as follows:_

_ "Here's to crime," Mason said, looking at Tragg across the rim of his glass._

_ "And the __**catching**__ of criminals," Tragg amended before he drank._

_ "By fair means or foul," Della Street volunteered._


	13. Chapter 13

TCOT Absurd Assumption C13

"I sure wish people would stop leaving me money in wills," Della complained as Perry steered the white convertible down the long driveway and through the gates of the Gordon estate.

Perry managed not to smile even though just being with Della made him want to smile continuously. "I don't have to tell you this isn't the greatest news in regard to the case against you. Arthur Gordon himself provided a solid motive for Barbara Scott to build a case of first degree murder around. That will was updated two weeks ago, Della, around the same time you accepted his offer to take over as Director of the Gordon Foundation. If it turns out Arthur added your bequest then, Barbara Scott will have a field day, not to mention what Paula Gordon might say to newspaper reporters."

Della sat stiffly in the seat, staring straight ahead. "I don't know why he did it, or when he did it, Perry. We've already had this discussion."

"If Paula Gordon disliked you before, she positively hates you now," Perry dared to state the obvious aloud, recalling how the widow of Arthur Gordon had stood and calmly but with threatening undertones demanded that Della _**leave her house**_. Earlier the widow of Arthur Gordon had proclaimed she wouldn't have Della in the house, calling Della's presence at the reading 'grotesque'. While holding her arm firmly and protectively, Perry had adopted his most authoritative lawyer voice and announced that Della had a right to be there as a beneficiary under Arthur Gordon's will, carefully including every person in the room in his intense gaze. And when she would have mingled with everyone as they selected where to sit at the long dining room table, Perry pulled her back a bit roughly in order to observe the family dynamic, which appeared non-existent between the siblings and their stepmother, but quite convivial with regard to their father's attorney. No one chose seats directly across from Paula Gordon, and that worked out fine in Perry's estimation as he'd never shied away from looking the enemy in the eye.

Following Paula Gordon's command to leave her house, Perry and Della left the ornate formal dining room where Arthur Gordon's attorney chose to read the will and waited in the expansive foyer until Ken Braddock emerged and could be apprised out of earshot of Paula Gordon about the court order giving Della permission to remove personal items from her adjunct office in the house. That short delay had given Laura the opportunity to enter the office before them and be caught trying to break into her father's desk to retrieve what could be considered very embarrassing and possibly a motive for murder.

"The Gordon Foundation has suffered terribly under Paula's mismanagement," Della fretted, interrupting his recollections and ruminations. "I know I could get it back on the right track…that is if Paula doesn't shut it down."

"It's a moot point if there are no documents regarding Gordon's intention to remove his wife as Director and install you in the position." Perry interrupted. "Even if it can be proven, you don't owe Arthur Gordon a thing despite his generous bequest, and to accept the position will inevitably go toward upholding motive." _And it would make it impossible for you to accept the position __**I**__ would like to offer._

"This is going to look horrible in the newspapers no matter what I do or don't do."

"Don't read the newspapers. I'm not going to. If Barbara Scott relies on the bequest in any way to substantiate her case at the preliminary hearing, we'll be ready with a dozen witnesses that will testify to the high esteem Arthur Gordon held your business talents."

"Yikes. Don't use the word 'talents'. Talk about incriminating oneself."

Perry smiled again. "There is always the precedent of you giving away bequests." It was a straw to pluck, a fact that could be proven, something positive to combat Barbara Scott if she decided to use Arthur's bequest toward motive. There were many ways to argue for and against such a motive, and Perry hoped he could be more convincing in his argument than could the Prosecution.

Della actually smiled back at him. "That's right! Why didn't we think about that sooner? I've given away more money than Arthur bequeathed me. So why would his paltry five-hundred thousand dollar gift mean anything to me?"

"You are callous and irreverent, Miss Street."

"I was going for hard-edged and unconcerned."

"Considering you are none of the above, I think we should go with loyal and self-effacing."

Della wrinkled her nose. "What a boring woman."

Perry laughed out loud. "Hardly. It was your loyalty and self-efficacy that supported a busy legal practice as well as a multi-million dollar corporation. How about we add generous and unselfish to the narrative?"

"I wasn't being generous or unselfish when I gave away my grandmother's and my father's money," Della told him in a vibrantly low voice. "If anything, my motives were the epitome of selfishness. I wanted my brother to be remembered."

"You also wanted to thumb your nose at the memory of your grandmother and piss off your mother."

Her grin was quick and spectacular. "I was rather a great success at everything, wasn't I?"

"I think your father knew all along you would donate the money to Daniel's scholarship fund. That's precisely why he left money to you after you told him not to. He did something nice for you."

"I kept seven thousand dollars," she reminded him. "I needed a new car."

Perry laughed again, longer and louder, remembering the look on her childhood friend Jeff Kuiper's face when for the second time she drove off his GM dealership lot with a car* – this time a Cotillion White Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale Brougham Coupe – after plunking down a pile of cash that had spent years taped to the back of an oil painting. "Given the increased inflation rate the past five years, seven thousand dollars won't buy you another Delta 88, but I think it would be fitting to keep that much out of tradition and donate the rest of Arthur's bequest to the Foundation, or to some other charitable organization – _**after**_ you're acquitted. You must have a favorite project being considered for funding."

Della didn't respond, and Perry glanced at her several times to see if her posture or expression gave any clue as to her thoughts. Neither gave anything away, but then he hadn't actually expected them to. A quick, stunning thought came to him. She had accepted money from _**him**_. Quite a bit over the years, in fact, aside from her salary. Yearly merit bonuses, proceeds from the sale of Harvey's lake house, a percentage of his practice when he closed it, as well as allowing him to pay for all of their vacations. What did that mean to the case and otherwise?

"You aren't thinking about keeping the money, are you?"

Della started, blinked, and turned to him as he pulled up to a stop light. "Of course not. The position of Director was the prize, so I can't imagine why Arthur would bequeath money as well – unless it was to purposely irk Paula. He had a mean streak when it came to her. The bequest could have been merely one last insult."

Yes, Perry thought, Miss Independence would see a _**job**_ as the true spirit of Arthur Gordon's generosity. He smiled inwardly. Many years ago he had actually given Della a satin sash that read '_Miss Independence'_. She had been delighted, and proudly wore the sash for him with a pair of three-inch red pumps. And absolutely nothing else. If he wasn't careful, deep dimples would give Della a reason to ask what he was thinking, and then he would be in trouble over something that happened what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Why did Arthur leave Paula the controlling percentage of stock in his company if he was dissatisfied with her performance as an administrator? I thought you said he would protect his company." The more they talked about it, the less confidence he felt in combating motive with her history of donating large bequests. Della was the only person Arthur Gordon included in his will because he _**wanted**_ to, and not because he _**had**_ to. When that fact became clear to reporters and ultimately to Barbara Scott, they would be right back to debating Della's original concern about her personal choices.

"The pre-nuptial perhaps? I never could understand Arthur's tolerance of Paula's mismanagement. The Foundation was established initially as a tax write-off, but it took on a life of its own after Ken Braddock came on board, and Arthur was proud of the projects it funded. After Paula was appointed Director approved projects became more and more of what Arthur called trivial, but she insisted that the types of projects she green-lighted were popular with an elite crowd that virtually guaranteed their standing in the social community and brought in large donations. While Arthur negotiated multi-million dollar contracts with not only private industry but the government, Paula attended parties almost every night of the week to talk about her philanthropy."

A horn honked and Perry pressed the accelerator, shooting through the intersection before the car with the annoyed driver had moved two feet. "Make a note to get a copy of that pre-nuptial. If it was sealed, Arthur's death unsealed it." Perry doubted very much Arthur's blind eye in regard to his wife's unsuitability to run the Foundation had anything to do with a pre-nuptial agreement and everything to do with appeasement for hiring a hard-working, charming, beautiful Executive Assistant, but why on earth then would he turn over majority ownership of the thing he appeared to have cared about most to his widow?

"Paul will call the house tonight. I'll mention it then."

"I called last night," he blurted. _Where in __**hell**__ had that come from?_

"Why didn't you leave a message?"

"I didn't have anything important to say."

"You forced that machine on me but wouldn't leave a message?" Her entire body was beginning to tremble with laughter. "How many times did you call?"

He shrugged. "Two or three."

"Meaning eight or ten?" She was shaking all over with mirth now.

He took his eyes off the road to glower at her for knowing him so well. "Two or three." Confound her. If he conceded to five, she would raise her estimate to twelve, and that was too close to the actual number, which he would not admit to under any circumstances. "What time are we picking up your brother and sister-in-law at the airport?"

"Their plane lands at four-forty," she told him for the four or fifth time, very, very patiently, then added casually, "_**Your**_ brother and sister-in-law arrive at five-twenty."

Perry whipped his head around to stare at her, completely ignoring his driving duties. "You didn't tell me Val and Bart were coming, too."

"Didn't I?" Della asked sweetly, dipping her chin and fluttering her lashes. "Eyes forward, Counselor."

He returned his disgruntled attention to the snarl of traffic trying to enter the city, longing for the days when a driver could change lanes at will and occasionally take a corner on two wheels. It was nearly impossible to get to the sprawling behemoth that was the Los Angeles International Airport at certain times of the day from any direction, and he felt old remembering the rerouting of Sepulveda Boulevard in the late '40's/early '50's to a tunnel beneath two 6,000 foot runways; and how passengers walked out on the tarmac to board planes while loved ones waved good-bye from behind a chain-link fence, which Perry had done the few times Della travelled without him early in their relationship. Not particularly liking to travel, when the airport was redesigned and expanded to accommodate the 'jet age' Perry Mason grew into a decidedly poor traveler. While he preferred to and could afford to charter private planes, for long continental and intercontinental flights, Della exerted her power as financial manager and insisted upon flying commercial, capitulating to first class carriage. Perry detested lengthy layovers in dreary, stuffy terminals and complained about the abominable food served on flights. Della never seemed to mind, because wherever they went she made immediate and lasting friends, and called travel time 'the journey' or 'the adventure'. Perry would have preferred to blink and be at their destination, ready to embark on a private adventure with Della, even though he did rather enjoy eavesdropping on her conversations with fellow travelers. Sometimes he pretended to sleep or study legal journals while she socialized, listening to her wonderful, well-modulated voice as she mesmerized all around her, his desire building to the point they could have earned a charter membership in the Mile High Club had they been so inclined. And on a few occasions they had been so inclined.

"I think I would have remembered news of such magnitude," he said reproachfully after a considerable pause.

"Oh," Della shrugged innocently, "maybe I did neglect to tell you. Valerie called right after I got home last night. I would have returned your call and told you if you'd left a message."

Perry ignored her verbal jab in the ribs. "This isn't a party, Della. You've been arraigned on a charge of first degree murder."

"I'm well aware of that. And so is my family. That's why they want to be here."

"But we have a lot to get done and you aren't sleeping well…"

"Perry, I'm a menopausal woman. I haven't slept well in six years. Actually, I'll probably sleep better with someone in the house."

He took that latest pointed barb like a man: with a perturbed grunt. "In the house? Everyone is staying with you in the house? Where is everyone going to sleep? You only have a single bed in the second guest room."

Della glanced at her watch. "A problem easily solved. Janet should be directing delivery men from _Hilliard's_ to set up a new queen-size bed at this very moment. And Tragg's men are installing the alarm system today as well. You owe Janet a good dinner for volunteering to supervise the installation."

Traffic came to a sudden standstill and Perry took the opportunity to turn his upper body completely toward her. "But where will you put the twin bed?" _Hang Janet and the security system. When did even this highly efficient woman find time to shop for a bed? _

"Goodness, Perry, stop fussing over silly details. I'm very touched that Val and Bart want to be here with us, considering…everything."

Della had always been closer to his family than he. He could understand his sister-in-law wanting to attend Della's preliminary hearing, but his loose cannon of a brother he could not. The past couple of years had been very bad for Val and Bart, the worst years in their long married life, and Bart had become even more unpredictable. Worrying about and taking care of Della might be considered a vacation of sorts from their personal heartbreak – if Bart could behave himself. "Why don't I put Val and Bart up at the Rochester with me?" It spoke deeply to him that his own brother and sister-in-law hadn't bothered to contact him since he resigned from the bench, instead relying on Della to act as intermediary as she always had, as if they were still together. He could have called them himself he thought again, should have called them himself. Regret lay around every corner these days.

But why was he so upset his relatives wanted to be supportive of Della? He sure as hell didn't know.

Yes he did. How on earth were he and Della going to accomplish anything in regard to her legal predicament or their looming personal predicament with so many relatives underfoot? They were barely making headway without interference from members of their well-meaning extended family as it was, and knowing what he wanted from her made that all the more frustrating.

"Perry," she said sharply, "I have plenty of room. We aren't together anymore but your brother and sister-in-law are still part of my life and therefore welcome in my home."

"I know that, Della, and you know I feel the same way about your family. I'm merely concerned about preparing for the hearing and having to entertain so many people. We still have a lot to do." In all the years he'd practiced law, not one of his relatives had lent such support, up to and including attending any of his trials. But now, now that it was Della, they came running at the precise time he wanted them to be far, far away. Even though he maintained everything he was doing was for Della, if he couldn't do what he had to do the way he had to do it, stepping down from the bench would be for naught.

"I'm sure no one expects to be entertained. I'll be at Paul's office at nine o'clock every morning and home by six o'clock every evening until the hearing date, and I'll perform my tasks as your secretary as _**ably**_ as ever." Last night had shown her Perry wasn't going to lean on her to the extent he once had or spend his evenings with her, which she should have expected given the parameters of their contract, which he was adhering to in the most vexatious way, damn his lawyerly ethics. Add Robin Calhoun and his life in San Francisco to the mix, and the situation became ever so much more complicated considering some very, um, _**interesting**_ feelings that were developing. So she had decided to seek the constant activity essential to her sanity via other avenues. The blend of Perry's brother and his wife and her brother and his wife could be her salvation, proverbial protective Walls of Jericho. "Henny and Val already have a week of meals planned, and Bart promised to make deep fried chicken and French fries if I agreed to make cole slaw. I think I can prepare for my hearing and grate cabbage at the same time."

Perry was silent for several seconds. "Will he make onion rings, too?"

Della had to chuckle. Food, the great equalizer. "Ask him nicely, and he might."

Perry shifted back behind the steering wheel, a decidedly worried and preoccupied expression on his face.

"The twin bed is going next door for Heather – Chief's little girl," Della said quietly. "I bought a sofa bed to replace the old office couch in the den. Do you want to know where that couch is going?"

Perry propped his elbow against the steering wheel, leaned his chin into the palm of his hand, and regarded her with low-lidded eyes. "Not particularly."

She drew in a breath and released it. "Paul's office."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Henrietta 'Henny' Vander Velde Street folded her sister-in-law in motherly arms and rocked her back and forth. "That Prosecutor must be out of her mind." she said indignantly.

Della hugged Henny hard. In the twenty-five years since the buxom blue-eyed blonde had married Carter Street, Della's taciturn older brother, the two women had become close despite the significant number of states separating them. After having sworn never to step foot in her home town again, Della had actually been back three times – for her brother's wedding; to hide from a weekend of devastating karma; and for her father's funeral. Henny and Carter had brought their four children to LA several times, and had met Della and Perry for short vacations in various cities around the United States as well. "It's so good to see you, Henny. You look wonderful."

"Nonsense. I look like a mother of four preparing to nag her children to give her grandchildren. You, however, look more beautiful than ever. I like your hair longer and curly like that."

Carter shook Perry's hand formally. "Mason. I suppose if Della Katherine must be accused of a crime, we're glad you will be defending her."

"Carter!" Henny exclaimed, appalled at her husband. "I swear, I tell him exactly what to say and he still can't get it right."

"What? You told me to tell him we're glad he's defending Della. That's what I did."

Henny shook her head as she accepted Perry Mason's affectionate embrace. "We really are glad to see you, Perry. And not just because of Della's situation."

"Henny, Della's right. You look wonderful."

Henny fairly beamed, her peculiar flat cheeks deepening from rosy to red. The natural color of her incredible skin and the fact she had no discernable pores, meant that Henny didn't have to wear make-up aside from a slight dusting of powder to hold down shine. She was several years older than Della, but could pass for a woman younger than her sister-in-law, who by virtue of her own phenomenal complexion didn't come close to looking her age either.

Carter Street dropped an awkward kiss on his sister's cheek. Time and marriage had allowed Carter to be civil, even mildly affectionate toward his sister whenever they saw one another, although the siblings continued to maintain a certain distance. "How on earth did you get yourself accused of murder, Della Katherine?"

"Carter!" Henny groaned.

"What _**now**_?"

Della linked her arm through her brother's as Perry offered his to Henny. "Let's go claim your luggage, Mr. and Mrs. Street, and then have a cocktail in the lounge. Perry's brother and sister-in-law are arriving shortly and once we get everyone settled at the house we'll talk while Perry cooks dinner."

Perry surreptitiously glanced at his watch, but Della caught the slight movement. "I really should call the service to see if Paul checked in," Perry said apologetically to an inquiringly curved eyebrow. "He was going to finagle his way in to Bobby Lynch's hotel room with the police."

"Let's get the luggage and while we're waiting for Val and Bart in the lounge you can call the service," Della suggested, patting his chest. Floating in a little bubble of cozy comfort, it was her attorney's snit about the strain of four extra people in the house causing whatever stress she was under at the present time and not the extra people who would be staying at her house. Even the inevitable verbal sparring with Carter and Bart would be a blessed relief from Perry's standoffishness and fretting over insignificant details.

Perry and Henny, Della and Carter made their way through the crowds to the baggage claim. The two women kept up a lively conversation centering on the exploits of Della's nieces and nephews, with Carter actually interjecting animated stories of his own. Perry remembered when he first met Carter Street – uptight and repressed, overly concerned with appearances and propriety, unable to connect with his only surviving sibling, and was glad that the man, no doubt heavily influenced by his wife, had developed an appreciation over the years for what a tremendous person his sister was.

Having dispensed with that thought, Perry reverted to the more churlish thought of how he wished _**he**_ was still enough to comfort Della.

_*_Refer to my story_**TCOT Pretty Stones**_


	14. Chapter 14

_Note: It's been too long since I mentioned my stellar beta, the fabulous StartWriting, whose presence can be found in a perfect word or phrase sprinkled throughout this story. ~ D_

TCOT Absurd Assumption C14

Perry scraped the leftover pasta into a Rubbermaid container and snapped on the beige lid. A bit of vodka sauce oozed out and he swiped a finger over it, then licked the finger clean. He had become quite adept at this recipe – sautéed onion, garlic, fresh basil, and prosciutto mixed with pureed crushed tomatoes, heavy cream, and a healthy shot of vodka served over al dente penne. Add lots of freshly shredded parmesan cheese, an oil-and-vinegar salad, crusty French bread, and a slightly sweet white wine to counteract the acidity of the sauce, and you had a meal that satisfied everyone – even persnickety Bartholomew Mason.

"Hand me that," Bart directed, "and I'll put it in the fridge."

Perry passed the container of pasta to his brother. Dinner had been a civil affair, and Perry would go so far as to call it pleasant. They spent two hours dining and talking, catching up on children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts and uncles, purposely staying away from certain topics such as Valerie Mason's pale, nervous thinness, and any bad news about children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts and uncles. There was plenty of time to go over all of that, as well as Della's upcoming preliminary hearing. No need to spoil everyone's first night in LA or the fine dinner Perry prepared.

Aggie Carpenter and her partner Teresa Burdick, who worked as a personal style consultant at _Estelle's_, now Aggie's boutique following her former partner's death, arrived just as everyone decided to finally stop picking at the food and clean up, and the women were all gathered in the dining room/sitting room, cut off from the men by that blasted wall. Carter, a ruffled apron tied around his slender waist, was filling one of the double sinks to wash dishes while Perry and Bart finished putting away leftovers. Perry poured powdered soap into the receptacle in the door of the GE Potscrubber dishwasher, lifted the door, slid the lock into place, pressed the wash cycle selector button, then the drying option button. Bart handed him a dish towel and the three men proceeded to wash whatever didn't fit in the dishwasher in virtual silence while the women could be heard chatting and laughing in the other room.

"Wasn't that wall supposed to come down?" Bart finally broke the silence, jerking his head toward the offending barrier.

Perry grimaced inwardly. "Never got around to it."

"It would be easier for Della to entertain without that wall," Bart continued, jabbing at his brother's obvious self-reproach. "I can't believe there isn't even a pass-through. Maybe it wasn't ever supposed to be a dining room. Maybe it – "

"The realtor said it was a dining room," Perry interrupted tightly. "Della doesn't need a dining room."

"That's why the kitchen should be opened up to create a hearth room," Carter offered. "Like in those old southern houses. She's made it into a hearth room already, despite the wall."

"Might be a load-bearing wall," Bart said musingly, squinting at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. "If the wall is taken down, there might have to be a beam or a couple of posts to support the second level."

"It is load-bearing," Perry nearly snapped. He didn't need his brother and Della's brother to point out his failures. He was painfully aware of them every time he looked at Della. "There would have been an archway to disguise the beam."

"I take it the living room wall was going to stay?"

"Some of it. There would have been another archway and an exposed brick corner column."

Carter nodded his approval at the unfulfilled renovation plans. "With four kids under six years old, Henny wanted to take down a few walls in the family house so she could see everyone, but the structure was too complicated and it would have cost a fortune to pour new footers and install new beams. That's why we finally moved out and into a house with what Henny calls an open concept, one of those sprawling ranches all on one level that takes ten minutes to get from one side to the other on a bicycle. Father sold the mansion about a year later, and the new owners gutted the thing and now it's what they call a bed and breakfast. You wouldn't even know it's the same house."

Perry didn't think he had ever heard Carter Street speak so many words at once in twenty-five years. He stared at the man he'd considered his brother-in-law, unable to come up with anything to say.

"Val isn't a fan of open concept floor plans," Bart stated conversationally. "She likes rooms to be a little more closed off, like our house in Ogden. When the boys were still at home I think she wanted as many barriers as possible between her and all the testosterone. We're in a retirement condominium now, and it's more open than she'd like, but it's fine for just the two of us." It seemed as if he wanted to say more, but decided against it. Perry surmised what went unspoken was how the condominium was being put up for sale because Valerie had difficulty navigating the stairs.

"Speaking of retirement," Carter began casually, cautiously, wiping wet hands on the apron before untying it and threading it through a cabinet door pull, "what are your plans for after Della Katherine is acquitted, Perry?"

Perry was dumbfounded it was Carter who asked that question and not his habitually reproving brother. The tart, scathing response he'd rehearsed for Bart languished on his tongue. "I'm considering re-opening my practice," he confessed, bracing himself for Bart to have his say.

"Re-opening your practice?" Bart boomed right on cue. Perry Mason's famous courtroom voice had nothing on his older brother's thunderous vocalization, honed at countless football games. "At your age?"

"I'm younger than you," Perry retorted.

"You're my age," Carter reminded him. "And I've been retired for almost a year."

"Bart only retired last year," Perry pointed out defensively, "He's seven years older than we are. And you only retired because the mill was going under."

"I worked Sundays for five months out of twelve," Bart clarified. "It was more of a hobby than work." Following an illustrious career as a college football coach and then several seasons as a flamboyant and celebrated NFL offensive coordinator, Bart and his mellifluous voice had moved on to acting as a 'color' commentator for a fledgling cable television sports network. It was personal tribulations and not age considerations that had precipitated his retirement the previous football season, so for Bart to pose any objection to his brother practicing law based on age was ludicrous.

"I have eight years to make up for," Perry countered. "All that time I sat on my ass and read. Occasionally, for a welcome change of pace, I sat on my ass and listened. I wasn't meant to be a judge. I was only a judge because in a moment of grief I made a promise I had no business making. I'm an attorney. I'm a good attorney."

"We know you're a good attorney, Perry. By all accounts you're a great attorney. But you're also sixty-three years old. Isn't that a bit long in the tooth to be going back into the courtroom and duking it out with a bunch of twenty-five year olds?" Bart's tone of voice dripped with patronizing big-brother superiority.

"I don't feel like I'm all that old," Perry said evenly. "It may be trite to say this, but age really is what you make of it. I may be of the age when most men retire, but I don't want to retire. I don't think I _**could**_ retire."

"You have plenty of money." Carter pulled out a stool and sat down at the island. "Why don't you enjoy it?"

"I do enjoy it. I've been very fortunate in that regard. But I don't especially like to travel, I don't have any hobbies, and I don't have a passel of children and grandchildren to pester. What I do have is a knack for criminal law. I spent my life helping people, people in desperate situations fighting for their lives, and I was good at it. I miss that. I want to do it again. I never should have stopped doing it." What he left unspoken was the ulterior motive - work was what had brought him and Della together in the first place. He had to take a chance.

"And I suppose you want Della Katherine to do it again as well?" Carter asked quietly.

Perry folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. Was mind-reading an inherited trait of the Street family? "I intend to ask her to be my assistant."

"Do you intend to ask her to be anything more than your assistant?"

"Carter, since when have you ever cared what Della does so long as it doesn't reflect poorly on you and the family name?"

"Look here, Mason," Carter Street responded indignantly, "don't presume to tell me I don't care about my sister. Aside from Henny and my children, she's the only family I have. Do you want her to be more than your employee again?"

"Actually, Perry, I'd like to know the answer to that question myself." Bart was leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest as well, a bigger, older version of his brother. Seventy years old, Bart was large and grey-haired, strong-voiced and physically active. His wife hadn't aged as gracefully, plagued by illness and the stress of the past two difficult years in their family life apparent in her frail frame and weary, sagging features.

"I want to practice law again," Perry started, then stopped. That sounded selfish. But didn't he have the right to be selfish after being so selfless for eight years, fulfilling the dying wish of his oldest friend and becoming a judge, something he had never, ever considered for his career path, something that had cost him the most precious thing in his life? "Now that I've resigned from the Court, I can practice law again," he started over in a lower voice, "but without Della, it wouldn't be much of a practice. She was the reason I was so effective…she and Paul Drake. So yes, I will ask her to join me in reopening my practice, and if in doing so we…fall into old habits, I would consider myself doubly lucky."

Bart Mason and Carter Street exchanged oblique glances, realizing that Perry had just told them a very personal truth. It was Carter who chose to speak to Perry's words. "Do you think your plans are fair to Della Katherine?"

"Fair?" Perry exploded, "what has fairness got to do with anything? Life isn't _**fair**_. Life is life, and you have to take it as it comes, look it in the eye and sometimes spit. And I've taken it. Lord knows I've taken it up the –"

"We get your gist, Perry," Bart interrupted hastily. "I think what Carter is trying to get at is, and I share the same concern, is that a lot has happened in eight years. You and Della managed to make a go of it for a while, but it's been over for some little time now. Do you think that practicing law again will make the past few years disappear?" He paused for effect. "What about Robin Calhoun?"

"That's over," Perry stated flatly. Saying it out loud made him feel like a heel, but it was more truthful than Bart saying what he had with Della was over. Bart had enough problems in his own life. Why was he inserting himself where he wasn't needed or particularly wanted? Because Bart was Bart, that's why, and just like Gertie, would never change.

Bart rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He liked Robin Calhoun. Not as much as he liked Della, but the actress was okay in his book, and she seemed to genuinely care for Perry. "Was it over before or after Della called you to defend her?" There had been many discussions between the brothers about the status of the relationship, with Bart of the mind Perry needed to either fish or cut bait in regard to Robin, even if it meant breaking more promises. Perry was big on promises.

"First of all, Della didn't ask me to be her attorney. I made that decision on my own. She expected me to send in another attorney to defend her."

"So you took advantage of the situation to insinuate yourself back into Della's life?" Carter demanded, contempt undisguised in his slightly flat, nasal voice.

"No!" Perry's voice boomed to rival Bart's. "I took advantage of the situation to step down from the bench and practice law again. I did not take advantage of _**Della**_. You know _**she**_ called _**me **_when she was arrested. I would _**never**_ take advantage of her." Janet had accused him of virtually the same thing – of treating Della as a convenience to his mercurial whims. Robin was the one who understood his motives best – he did want to recapture his glory days as an attorney. The years he practiced law with Della by his side were the best, happiest years of his life. Didn't anyone understand that he and Della had loved each other, loved each other very much, and letting go completely was something neither of them could conceive of, let alone actually carry out? Didn't they understand how good they were together, how well they worked together, how many people they'd helped together?

Both Bart and Carter wore plainly skeptical expressions on their faces.

"You hurt her again," Bart said at length, "and I will thump you into the ground, little brother. Don't think I can't or won't."

"And I'll be exuberantly cheering him on," Carter added spiritedly, against his characteristically pacifistic deportment.

Perry straightened his posture and uncrossed his arms. "Why does everyone assume I'm the bad guy in everything or that I'm going to do something wrong? I was hurt, too. There are _**two**_ people in a relationship."

Both Bart and Carter executed derisive snorts. If Perry didn't know better, he would have thought the two men had choreographed the entire conversation.

"You forget, Perry, that I witnessed the first of many little peccadillos you got yourself involved in while maintaining a _**committed**_ relationship with your Miss Street. Or have you forgotten Ellen Payne?" Bart jutted out his jaw almost belligerently.

"If you hadn't interfered with my personal life, Ellen Payne wouldn't matter one bit." _And I wasn't moved one bit by her years later when she came to me for help yet again. It was __**Della**__ who smothered Ellen with concern then, pushing me from behind to help her the entire time._

"Ellen may have been there initially because of me that Christmas*, but I didn't have anything to do with your lapse of faithfulness to Miss Street."

"And you hurt Della Katherine so badly once she actually came running to _**me **_for comfort," Carter interjected.

"I guess neither one of you has ever made a mistake," Perry said with dry, defensive sourness.

"Not like the mistakes you've made," Bart replied.

"No," Carter agreed, "I haven't."

Perry ran his hands through his hair, thoroughly frustrated with the conversation and being the butt of Bart's and Carter's uninformed disdain. "Good Lord, I made stupid mistakes. I'm not perfect. I would give anything not to have made those mistakes, but since time-travel hasn't been invented yet, I can't very well go back in time and undo them." He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "All I want to do is reopen my practice and ask Della to work with me. I don't expect things to magically be the way they were, but I won't lie and say I'm not hoping we can find a way back to being more than friends. And it's no one's business but ours." _Always has been, always will be. And I sincerely don't know what mistake I made that finally caused Della to jump ship…_

"The most important thing is: can you get her acquitted?" Carter's flinty grey eyes bored into those Perry Mason. "None of what you want means a blessed thing if you can't concentrate on what's happening right now."

"Yes, I can get her acquitted. It isn't difficult to defend an innocent person."

"That's not what you used to say," Bart reminded him. "As I recall, all of your clients were innocent, but listening to you and Della talk, proving it was _**very**_ difficult."

"It won't be difficult defending Della," Perry insisted. "I've got a theory about what happened that will cast serious doubt on anything the Prosecution throws at us. As a matter of fact, by the time the preliminary hearing convenes, I'll have so much contraindicating evidence there won't be a chance in hell the judge will bind her over."

Bart looked to Carter. "He's always been a cocky son-of-a-gun."

"Yes, that was my very first impression of him."

Perry slammed his hand down on the countertop. It hurt like hell, but no one was going to know it. "I've had enough of this crap. Bully someone else. I'm going to have a cigarette. Feel free to discuss me while I'm gone."

* * *

><p>Perry paused his relentless pacing, and still boiling inside, lit his second cigarette. Just as he was snapping the lighter shut, the slider opened and Della very quietly stepped out onto the deck. He guiltily looked around for the galvanized bucket of sand, but Della reached him in a couple of quick steps, plucked the cigarette from between his fingers, and inhaled a lungful of smoke.<p>

"You don't smoke anymore." She had been proud of her achievement, stopping cold turkey when Harvey Sayers was diagnosed with an unstoppable form of lung cancer in 1976 that killed him in two short weeks, and racking up days, months, then years without a puff. In truth, she had never smoked much, mostly when he offered, at social gatherings where everyone else lit up while drinking, or when under incredible stress on the job, so quitting hadn't been very difficult for her. He had quit the day of Paul Drake's funeral in 1979 – well, he began cutting back that day – and smoked his last cigarette three months later. That is, the last cigarette until Robin Calhoun offered him one immediately after they slept together for the first time in 1983 and he almost lunged for it, burning it to ashes with two huge drags. Here it was 1985 and he smoked as much as he had in 1955 – except when he was with Della, because oddly he had never felt much need to smoke in her presence.

Eyes closed, Della tilted her head back slightly and exhaled with leisurely savoring. "Doesn't mean I don't miss it," she replied. "Care to tell me what all the shouting was about and why you're out here pacing grooves in the deck boards?"

"I'll give you three guesses," he began.

"And the first two don't count," Della interrupted, finishing his familiar catch-phrase. "Bart behaving badly?"

"Believe it or not, Carter was worse than Bart."

Della took a small puff on the cigarette, made a little face of distaste and offered it to Perry. "I hope Val doesn't look outside." He took the cigarette from her and stubbed it out in the bucket of sand. "Does it really bother you that they're here?"

"No," he said too quickly, untruthfully, hearing the muted disappointment in her voice. The lifting of one impeccably groomed eyebrow pulled the truth from him ruthlessly. "Hell, yes. Talking with Bart for fifteen minutes took me back to when we were kids. I was defensive and surly and I stomped out like a two-year old."

"I wasn't going to point that out," Della remarked.

"Tell the truth, Della – how happy are you that they're all here?"

"Very."

The timing of her reply was perfect, and poignant in its simplicity. He was disgusted by what a selfish little boy he could be at times. Bart and Carter had been right to talk to him as if he were a child, even if they were ignorant of so much.

"Not as happy that you're here," she continued with candid poise, standing before him, eyes riveted to his. "I don't think I could handle what's going on as well as everyone remarks about if you weren't here. I have complete faith in you as my attorney but it's nerve-wracking that life as I know it is threatened by an Assistant DA champing at the bit to score points against the very person I'm relying on to save that life, and the person I'm relying on can't get along with his investigator and had a tantrum because his big brother picked on him. You said you'd take care of everything, and that I needed to let people take care of _**me**_. Okay, I'm letting people take care of me. Starting with you. Take care of me, Perry."

She felt warm and soft as he held her close in a tender embrace, so different from the hug they'd exchanged in the Criminal Courts Building. Under the terms of the contract they were allowed to comfort one another, and he was elated that she so naturally stepped into the circle of his arms. She was there, pressed against him, and he never wanted to let her go, wondered how he could have ever let her go. He should have fought harder for her, for _**them**_, demanded more than the unsatisfying explanations she'd given for not wanting to be with him any longer, because she belonged right where she was.

"That's all I've ever wanted to do, baby." The word 'baby' had not left his lips for a long time, but lately had broken free from him, and Della didn't object, so it kept popping up in conversation.

Della pushed away from him slightly, slid her hands up to rest on either side of his head, and tilted it downward, pressing cool, gentle lips against his forehead. "There is Kahlua and ice cream for dessert."

"Temptress," he said with a crooked little smile at her adroit deflection from yet another dangerously swirling whirlpool of emotion. _Kiss her for real, you damn fool._

"With Bart around you know there will be plenty of sweets."

Perry briefly touched his forehead to hers. "I'll go in there and apologize to Bart and Carter in front of everyone." _Kiss her!_

"You'll do no such thing," she admonished. "I've known both of them long enough to realize they intentionally pushed you across a line. They've done it to me more times than I can count over the years. _**They**_ will apologize to _**you**_."

Perry's crooked smile broke into a full-out grin. "Did you berate them with words or with eyebrows?"

A tiny flush crept across Della's phenomenal cheekbones and her fingers unconsciously curled. "Um, it might have been…shall we say…a digital berating."

Perry threw back his head and laughed uproariously.

The glass slider open with force and Bart's magnificent bulk filled the doorway. "Ice cream's melting," he announced, then slid the door shut with a resonant bang.

Della's peal of laughter blended with Perry's lingering chuckles, the harmonic treble line to his bass. She turned and took one step before Perry caught her wrist and spun her back to him, with every intention of finally kissing her _for real_, because kissing her would make him real again.

"Della, what Bart and Carter were…what they wanted to know…_**we**_ have to talk about it."

She patted his chest lightly. "I know we do. You and your brother have voices that carry so I heard some of the conversation from the other room. But I don't want to get into it until after I'm acquitted, okay? Right now I'm, as the kids say, maxed out."

He refused to let her see how disappointed he was, because he had never seen such fragility in her eyes before. There would be no kiss. He would remain unreal in this real world for a bit longer. "I'm holding you to that."

She took his hand and squeezed it. "Come on. Let's have some ice cream."

* * *

><p>"The ladies are very trusting that the three of us can behave ourselves," Bart commented, pouring another shot of Kahlua over his chocolate ice cream.<p>

The men were together in the kitchen again, seated at the island with huge bowls of ice cream and a bottle of Kahlua in front of them.

"I accept your apology," Perry said, mouth full of his own Kahlua drenched vanilla ice cream.

"I made no apology."

"I'm being proactive and saving you the effort."

"Cocky son-of-a-bitch." Carter interposed.

Perry stared at Della's brother. "Is this what retirement has done to you, Carter? Where's the spineless, uptight, milquetoast we all knew and barely tolerated?" He turned to Bart. "Although it seems I've heard that particular phrase before rather recently."

"Do not misquote me. I called you a cocky son-of-a-_**gun**_. Carter improved on the phrase all by himself. Nicely done, Carter."

Perry jerked his head toward Carter Street. "I accept his apology as well."

They were silent for several seconds.

Perry heaved a sudden sigh. "Arthur Gordon's will was read this morning. He left Della five hundred thousand dollars. And he intended to remove his wife as Director of his philanthropic foundation in favor of Della."

Bart whistled, spoon oozing with ice cream held aloft partway to his mouth. "What does that mean for her defense?" He could have added, _and what does that mean for you and Della?_, but then he'd have to apologize again and he didn't like apologizing – whether directly or indirectly.

"It's not good, even though there was nothing untoward in either the Directorship or the bequest. The DA didn't have much of a motive to support first degree murder before the will was read."

"Della gives money away," Carter said, excitement creeping into his normally uninflected voice. "All the family money left to her she put into Danny's scholarship fund."

Perry sighed again. That was just it. All the _**family**_ money she put into a _**family**_ fund _**she**_ established. Money from her employer, from _**him**_, she had a precedent of accepting. He pushed the half-eaten bowl of ice cream away. The money he had given her when he closed the practice paid for her house and vaulted the retirement fund she had started in 1956 with a twenty dollar deposit into a comfortable future indeed. An additional five hundred thousand dollars right now would make her a cash millionaire, and her relatively young age worked against her in combatting such a motive – even though she would have eventually become a millionaire by virtue of her own savviness in investing, a skill she shared with her grandmother but refused to acknowledge. He had sworn to take care of her, but she had nevertheless gone ahead and admirably provided for herself independently. How could Arthur Gordon have done such a thing to someone he obviously held in great esteem? Hell, the obvious answer was that the guy probably loved her and this was the only way he could tell her after being rebuffed. To satisfy his own jealous curiosity, Perry needed to find out exactly when the business tycoon added the bequest for Della to his will.

"What is she doing with the money? She isn't going to accept it, is she?" Carter reached for the bottle of Kahlua and shook a jigger of the coffee-flavored liqueur over the mounds of chocolate and vanilla ice cream in his bowl.

"She's going to accept it, but she's not going to keep it. After she's acquitted we'll figure out a proper philanthropic cause to donate it to."

"Danny's scholarship could be expanded to include more students or to build new baseball fields at the athletic park back home," Carter suggested. Kahlua dripped on his chin and he used the edge of his spoon to gather it and shovel it into his mouth.

Perry shook his head. "No, donating to a fund she established herself would go over like a turd in a punch bowl with the DA, as well as in the press."

"I did not teach him to talk like that," Bart proclaimed in response to Carter's odd expression. "You can blame me for a lot of the things that are wrong with him, but I did not teach him to cuss or talk dirty."

"Mom did," Perry deadpanned.

"Actually, I think he got that one from Della Katherine," Carter ventured tentatively, clearing his throat. "I remember her saying it when she was in high school. Grandmother almost fainted. She probably got it from that Domenico boy."

Perry grinned. "She got it from Danny." He was beginning to thaw toward Carter Street after twenty-five years. "Along with a certain one-fingered gesture I believe you two witnessed earlier."

Carter shook his head. "What a kid," he murmured, and Perry suspected he was talking about his younger brother and sister in the same breath.

Perry slid down from the stool, yawned, and stretched. "Gentlemen, I'll leave you to earn your keep and handle the dirty dessert dishes by yourselves. There's work to be done tonight before I can sleep, and I have a meeting at eight a.m. with our private investigator, who'd better show up on time, before Della gets to the office. He was supposed to tag along with the police today to check out the hotel room of the man I suspect killed Arthur Gordon."

"Wait a minute," Bart protested. "You can't drop something like that on us and walk out. You said you had a theory, not an actual suspect."

"That's all I can say right now. And don't pester Della about it. When I've got more evidence I'll be able to talk about what my theory is."

"Why aren't you staying here?" Carter tipped his bowl and poured a healthy stream of Kahlua laced with melted ice cream into his mouth. Good Lord, Perry thought. He should have given a bottle of Kahlua to Carter years ago.

"Yeah," Bart said, thinking he had really said, "_Yes, Perry, why aren't you staying here with the rest of us?"_

"Because I'm Della's attorney and it wouldn't be proper for me to stay here." _Because we have this damnable contract, you see, and_…oh hell, who was he kidding? He couldn't stay at the house because Della had been right – ethics be damned, he didn't trust himself. The desire to kiss her was strong and deep and he was weakening.

"You've _**always**_ been Della's attorney. By that reasoning, you were _**im**_proper for thirty years."

"He was also her…" Carter ducked his head a bit and said under his breath, "lover."

Perry rolled his eyes. "It's been an interesting evening, gentlemen. Unless something marginally better comes up, I might just join you for dinner tomorrow night as well."

Bart belched majestically. "Henny is cooking tomorrow. What's she making again, Carter?"

"_Pasties_," Carter replied, pronouncing the word very carefully with a short '_a_'.

Bart grinned, enjoying the name of the Cornish delicacy. "That's right. We have to find a rutabaga tomorrow. This is your town, Perry. Any idea where we might find a rutabaga?"

Perry shook his head and walked out of the kitchen.

*_Refer to my story_ _**Destination Christmas**_


	15. Chapter 15

**_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS! **_GO TIGERS!_**_**_**_**_**_**_**_**

TCOT Absurd Assumption C15

Paul Drake Jr. looked at his watch with a smirk as Perry Mason made an explosive entrance into the anteroom at eight-oh-two. He couldn't decide whether to make pointed comments, or simply let silence rule. Ultimately, he held his tongue, knowing that it would irk Perry more than anything he could say.

Red spots of consternation spread high over Perry's cheeks as he strode into the inner office and saw Paul leaning against the desk, with what his father would have called a 'shit-eating grin' on his face. Damn. How would he ever keep the boy in line if he violated his own rules?

"Did you call Della last night?" After hastily exiting Della's house watched by four sets of _**very**_ curious eyes, he had gone over files into the wee hours, unable to sleep, wondering exactly how much of the altercation with his brother and her brother she had overheard, and if she was sleeping better with people in the house. The alarm had failed to wake him from a dream in which he and Della lay wrapped in one another's arms in her big bed and he'd spent too much time being very deliberate in his clothing selection, because he had plans for today that began with the fact he had checked out of the Rochester.

There were chaperones now. An attorney could stay at a client's house if chaperones were present.

He just made that up.

Paul continued to regard Perry Mason with palpable smugness. "Uh-huh. She's mad you ran out on her last night. And she told me all about the will reading."

Ran out on her? Is that what she thought? Mad at him? Checking out of the hotel was looking like a foolish move and the day had barely begun. "I had work to do," he said.

"Still chewing on the theory that Bobby Lynch killed Arthur Gordon dressed as Della?"

"It's the only theory that makes sense." Actually, it was silly and far-fetched and made almost no sense, but it was all he had, and he needed to sell it.

"Well, then you'll like this: I saw a wig in Bobby Lynch's hotel room."

Perry's brows knit together. "A wig?"

Paul nodded. "A _**woman's**_ wig."

Perry sat down heavily in one of the straight-backed chairs at the conference table without removing his coat. "That is interesting. Do you have an updated evidence report?"

Paul's grin vanished and he cleared his throat. "Um, the police didn't take the wig with them as evidence. I tried to convince them how important to the case it was…" There was no way he could sugar-coat what happened in that hotel room. He may as well tell the truth and let Perry have his conniption fit. "The wig is gone."

Perry very slowly turned in the chair to face Paul. "If the police didn't take the wig," he began ominously, "then where is it?"

"It was stolen."

"You stole the wig?"

"No," Paul shook his head. "It was stolen from the hotel room by a man wearing silver-tipped cowboy boots after the police left. Before I had a chance to take it."

Perry stared unblinkingly at the young private investigator, concentrating on following his story. "The police told you this?"

"No. The police don't know anything about it. At least I don't think they do."

Perry huffed out an exasperated breath, completely lost. "Maybe you'd better tell me everything you know about that wig."

So Paul did. He told how the wig was in plain view on the coffee table; how his police sergeant friend hadn't grasped the significance of the wig (he didn't relate to Perry all the snarky comments made by officers regarding Bobby Lynch's private predilections); how he had hidden in the closet and attempted to abscond with the wig himself after the police left, but was interrupted by the arrival of three men wearing cowboy boots – one pair with fancy silver tips; how he had hung off the balcony until his arms screamed in pain; and when it was safe for him to re-enter the hotel room, he discovered the wig had disappeared.

"I'm lucky I didn't fall and break my neck," Paul finished, "or worse, get caught hanging off that balcony." Silver-tipped boots probably left a hell of a bruise if someone were to be kicked by them.

Perry was silent as long seconds ticked by, the only sound in the office the dull thud of his finely shaped fingers drumming on the table top. "Could you identify the three men?"

"I only saw their feet. Their voices were too muffled to make any kind of identification, but I'd recognize those silver-tipped boots anywhere."

"Damn it, Paul," Perry's fury finally burst forth. "I can't subpoena a pair of cowboy boots!"

Paul winced as Perry's voice thundered through him.

"You've been close to important leads on two different occasions, and both times they've gotten away from you. We don't have one bit of concrete evidence on Della's behalf." Perry barked, the drumming now an agitated staccato.

"I'll admit I haven't exactly saved the day, Perry, but I haven't come up completely empty-handed, either. You can use the existence of that wig to support your theory about Bobby Lynch. Just call my buddy Sergeant Stratton to the stand to verify its existence." Stratton would hate being subpoenaed to testify for the defense, but he couldn't lie about finding that wig in Bobby Lynch's hotel room. Not with a witness who shouldn't have been allowed in the hotel room in the first place staring at him from the Defense table.

"Theories are fine as far as they go," Perry bit out angrily, the volume of his voice dialed down from eleven to ten. So Sgt. Stratton was Paul's law enforcement source. "I can formulate all sorts of fantastic theories, but that wig was something tangible, a visual leg for me to stand on. Now I have nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Paul didn't expect the discouragement in Perry's voice, especially at such an impressive decibel. "I'm just as concerned about this as you are, Perry." He moved toward the door, troubled by what he saw in Perry's posture, what he heard in his voice. Perry was an indomitable mountain, always strong and in charge, always the hero with his cape flapping in the breeze. Sometimes it irked him how his father had bellyached about the lawyer's demands on his investigative talents. _"Have a heart, Perry," _he complain, and then go forth and do whatever heartless Perry Mason wanted. Paul Jr. wondered if that very dynamic was why the men worked so well together, why they were such good friends for so long. Maybe his father realized that to get along with and be paid by Perry Mason he had to be deferential to the lawyer's highly developed ego. He also wondered if his father had thought all he gave was worth whatever he got in return. He must have – he'd stuck by Perry Mason for three decades. Paul attributed a great percentage of the reason his father stuck around to Della, who definitely made being in the presence of the irascible attorney tolerable, but there had to have been something genuine between the two men as well, because his father was no fool.

"I'm going to chase down a few things," he said over his shoulder. Della had given him a task aside from her own case the night before, something he should be able to accomplish relatively quickly and with very little interference in the most important task he had.

"Paul!"

His escape thwarted, Paul turned reluctantly back toward Perry Mason, who sat hunched in the chair, eyes cast downward. Guilt washed over him for being a contributing factor to the disconsolate slump of the attorney's shoulders.

"It's the large amount of money Arthur Gordon left Della in his will…it gives Barbara Scott the one thing she didn't have – a motive. I need something more than a far-fetched theory to dull the impact of that."

My God, Paul thought, taken aback by the glimpse of vulnerability in the man who was usually all confidence and bluster, an entire life of impressions flayed by new depths of understanding. Perry still loved Della. Paul hadn't factored that into any equation, but it all added up: Perry stepping down from the bench; his snappishness, and the strict standards to which he was holding an unproven, rogue private investigator; the way his eyes lingered on Della; the softness in his voice when he spoke to her and of her.

And if seeing Perry Mason clearly as a man with human feelings and weaknesses wasn't traumatic enough after spending years believing him to be the cold, heartless bastard who had broken Della's heart, realizing and accepting the fact that Della still loved Perry as well shifted the axis of Paul's world. She had defended Perry to him without detailing what had gone wrong, giving him every opportunity to include her in any blame…could it be that his perfect Della, the woman he wanted so badly to be his true mother, the woman he thought needed to be protected from the big bad wolf could be at least partially responsible for what went wrong in the relationship?

Holy crap. Could he finally be maturing?

No two people were more tight-lipped about their relationship, but he had always known Perry and Della loved each other – they hadn't been shy about demonstrating it in front of him, just about _**defining**_ it. Until suddenly, it appeared that the love disappeared three years ago, and he had immediately assumed Perry was to blame because who but a complete idiot could ever not love Della Street?

Paul considered being cowardly and mumbling something unintelligible, or offering up a phantom appointment, but these two people, one he loved unconditionally and one he'd placed many, many conditions on loving deserved more of him than that in light of what he now knew to be.

"I heard enough stories over the years to understand you had far less to work with than this theory of yours, and only one client was ever convicted – and you got that conviction turned over eventually anyway. If anyone can convince a judge Bobby Lynch killed Arthur Gordon, it's you, Perry."

Perry heaved a silent sigh, shoulders rising a bit. Who would have thought he needed encouraging words from the boy? And who would have thought the boy would be capable of uttering those encouraging words?

"And," Paul continued brightly, unable to resist being a smart ass despite his emerging maturity, "you have the son of the world's best private investigator at your disposal. I'll find something concrete for you. I promise."

Perry waved dismissively at Paul. "Then why are you still hanging around the office?" he demanded gruffly.

Paul grinned. "Don't you want to know what I'm working on, Boss?"

"I sincerely hope you're working on Della's case."

"Bobby Lynch didn't have any friends to speak of, but he must have had a family. I noticed that information wasn't in the police file."

Perry's eyes showed a flicker of interest. Damn. He had missed that. "Have you located them?"

"I will shortly," he hedged, hoping his good buddy Sgt. Stratton would come through one more time. "I'll give you a full report tonight. Della invited me to dinner. Henny is making something I have to see to believe if the name is any indication."

Perry's brief smile was weary and wistful. "You're assuming I'll be invited to dinner."

"I think you will be. There was talk about you bringing the beer." Perry would be invited because as foolish as it might be to Paul's discombobulated sensibilities, if Della's sparkling eyes and calm demeanor told him anything, it was that she still loved her big oaf of an ex-employer as much as he still loved his amazing former secretary. Jeez, the way these two people, who had been as intimate as two people could be, danced around one another sometimes, Paul thought. He'd seen it from time-to-time while growing up, but hadn't been so keenly aware of what exactly they were doing until this very revealing few minutes with the man who had been his father's best friend.

He needed a drink. This new maturity sprouting within him was mentally draining.

* * *

><p>Della arrived at eight-fifty, trim and efficient as ever, humming her favorite song. "Well, hello," she said upon seeing Perry hunched over the table. "I didn't expect you to be here so early." She removed her coat and hung it on the wooden tree.<p>

"I had a conference with your PI at eight. You're looking fine this morning." Understatement of the _**century**_.

She had reached far back into her closet and retrieved a more tailored suit than was the current fashion, one Perry had always admired rather demonstrably. Light-weight moss green wool accented with wooden buttons that hugged her body exactly where clothing should hug, Estelle's masterful design sense undeniably visible in every well-placed seam. Accompanied by an ecru silk blouse, tasteful jewelry again primarily pieces gifted her, and three-inch heels in a muted brown kid leather that matched the wooden buttons perfectly, the suit, although ten years old, was as beautiful, sophisticated, and timeless as the lady who wore it. And how amazing was it that it still fit?

Perry stood, and with an inward smile threatening to make an outward appearance, finally took off his coat and draped it over the coat tree as well. Della placed hands on hips and gave a low whistle. "I can't hold a candle to you, Mr. Mason. Hot date?"

Perry's mood took a swing downward. His _**preening **_that morning, taking care with his attire as he had all those years ago with custom-made suits, expensive striped shirts, silk ties, and the tie bars Della confessed drove her wild, began to seem as foolish as checking out of the Rochester. Why would she say something like that? Was she being deliberately obtuse to his attenuated manipulation…or didn't tie bars make her wild anymore?

That damned contract strictly forbade him to be 'mushy' _"A perfectly fine legal concept",_ Della had insisted as the amused bartender dutifully drew up possibly the worst treaty ever conceived with an article disallowing 'mushiness', so this morning he had decided to devise other ways to clue her in on how he felt – dressing up for her was subtle, but she was ordinarily a veritable divining rod for subtlety. "I thought perhaps my client would accompany me to lunch today and I didn't want to embarrass her in public."

Her smile lit the entire office along with Perry's darkened mood, before slowly fading. "I'm sorry Perry, but I already have a luncheon date."

_Don't let your disappointment show, Mason. _ "That'll teach me to try to be spontaneous. I'll plan my spontaneity in future. Rain check?" Strong, steady, business-like, non-committal. He was pleased with himself, even if the damn tie bar was choking him.

Della skirted the table to take a seat across from him. She pushed the typewriter aside and regarded him shrewdly as he assiduously ignored her. "Aren't you going to ask?"

He made a nonsense scribble in the margin of Della's report about David Gordon. "I wasn't going to. Do you want me to?"

She laughed and he frowned savagely at the perfectly type-written page in front of him. "Perry, what happened to complete honesty?"

"I've decided that it's an over-rated concept," he announced, still engrossed in pretending to read, fiddling with his reading glasses. He felt that way on and off lately. Right now, that feeling was definitely _**on**_. "Were you able to make an appointment with David Gordon?"

"No. I've called a dozen times. He doesn't have an answering machine." She waited for a comment or a smile but neither was forthcoming. Oh boy. He was certainly in a mood. "David works out at his gym every day between two and three o'clock. I'll get the name of the gym and the address for you. You'll have the element of surprise on your side."

Perry grunted. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. Surprising the youngest of Arthur Gordon's children after the will-reading had unearthed a treasure-trove of useful information about the girl and her unfortunate choice of a spouse.

"I'm going to lunch with Bryce Hummel." Della definitely subscribed to the element of surprise maneuver.

That got Perry to look up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

Perry returned to faking paying attention to the files in front of him. "That's nice."

Della swore under her breath. He was wearing a tie bar, and an expensive suit tailored to the minute that accentuated the strength and breadth of him. A striped shirt, a silk tie, and a tie bar, dammit. He looked…like he did years ago when he was trying to impress her. "It is nice," she agreed equably, amused by his blatantly subtle attempt at flirting. "He called yesterday to see how I was and left a message on my answering machine. I saved it."

Perry winced from the stab of that last dagger. "So you're on speaking terms with Hummel?" _Keep it casual…_

"Of course." _For your information, Mr. Mason, I'm on speaking terms with every man I've dated more than once._

"Be careful what you say about the case," he cautioned, still not looking up.

She wished she hadn't agreed to meet Bryce. It would be an enjoyable lunch because Bryce was a very pleasant man, but…"I could call and cancel if you think I shouldn't…"

"Nonsense. Have lunch with your friend."

She tried to catch any special inflection in the word 'friend', but there was nothing discernibly different about it from any other word in the sentence. "If you think it's all right…"

"I insist." He made a big production of closing David Gordon's file and taking off his reading glasses. "And don't worry about being back at a certain time. I'll be out of the office all afternoon."

"Oh." She tried not to sound too disappointed. Didn't he remember the suit she was wearing? Maybe not, since it had spent more time scattered around the office than on her body when it was new. "Okay. Will I be able to reach you?"

"Probably not. I think I'll spend the afternoon dropping in unexpectedly on Arthur Gordon's two oldest children. I like what you said about the element of surprise. Look what we found out by sneaking up on their little sister."

"Did Paul say what he was doing today?"

"He will be trying to redeem himself for an unfortunate incident yesterday by tracking down Bobby Lynch's family."

"What happened yesterday?"

"Your PI let a valuable piece of evidence get away from him. Evidence that would have made it easier for me to introduce the concept of Bobby Lynch in court. All we have is a theory, and physical evidence would have been much appreciated."

"If you don't think you can get him introduced at the hearing, why on earth did you tell the entire Gordon family and Ken Braddock about Bobby Lynch? I nearly fainted. You never tipped your hand before like that. Sometimes you didn't even tell _**me**_ what was going on and I had a hell of a time not looking surprised when you pulled a straight flush against a pair of deuces in open court."

Perry grinned, gleefully rubbing his hands together. "Old dogs _**can**_ learn new tricks, Della. It has to be someone in that room who hired Bobby Lynch, and because they know I know, whoever it was is bound to make a mistake doubling back to cover up the original cover-up, and we'll catch them trying to bluff that pair of deuces against our straight flush." Financial independence for a scheming fortune hunter and four million dollars each for trust fund babies was a far greater motive than the amount Gordon left Della. He just had to figure out who had the guts to hire a killer.

Della leaned her chin in her hand. "Gosh, I miss talking in metaphors. Can we do it some more?"

"Which metaphor? The magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat? The bluffing poker player?"

"The more appropriate metaphor would be the baseball batter hitting the ball out of the park."

Perry chuckled. "And you would be the fighter going the distance."

She shook her head. "No, you're the fighter, the gambler, the magician, the baseball player, the fisherman baiting a hook, and the lily-gilder all rolled into one. I'm the ring girl, the magician's assistant, the bat boy."

"Boy?"

"I'm making a very good point here. Go with it."

Perry laughed outright.

"Perry," Della said slowly, drawing out his name thoughtfully,"you are the best criminal trial attorney this country has ever seen. You said you couldn't think of a better attorney to represent me, and I agreed. You said I should let you take care of me, and I agreed. Just because you took a detour for a few years doesn't mean you aren't still the attorney you once were. What I don't understand is these little flashes of insecurity you're having. You could very well be _**better**_ than you were. Age brings with it wisdom, a wealth of experience, and a patina of respectability. You might have to learn a few new tricks, but you haven't forgotten all the old tricks. You'll find some way to work around not having that evidence you wanted, whatever it is."

Bless this fabulous, exceptionally well-dressed woman. "Am I a better attorney because I'm finally sitting in an office instead of chasing down suspects myself or risking your safety on some hair-brained scheme?"

"I gave up on that pipedream a long, long time ago after being begged repeatedly to have confidence in you and then kissed silly in front of a client."

"Not one of my better moments," he said ruefully. _Except for the kissing part…that had been a __**brilliant**__ moment._

"It was one of your greatest moments," she disagreed quietly. "That case* was very important to me." _To us._

"Della, I – "

"Are you going to practice law again?"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about that until after you're acquitted." He wanted to talk about kissing some more, because hell, _**she **_brought it up.

"I don't want to talk about it. I just want to know the answer."

He shrugged. "I've been thinking about it."

"Will you hire a secretary?"

"I might hire an _**assistan**_t…"

"Stop it."

He shifted in the chair. "You said you didn't want to talk about it." _Let's revisit how I kissed you silly…_

She ignored him. "Would you consider hiring me?"

Maybe she should cross-examine witnesses in her own preliminary hearing. How much fun would it be to see a showdown between Della and Paula Gordon in a courtroom? "Is there a metaphor we can insert here?"

One eyebrow crept slowly toward her hairline. Della was possessed of many talents, but what she could do with those eyebrows was transcendent.

"Yes. Yes, I would consider hiring you," he confirmed quickly. _I hope to hire you. I want to hire you. But you don't want to talk about it. _

"And I might consider working with you again. But we aren't going to talk about it right now."

She leaned back against the chair and placed her hands in her lap, her face expressionless. But her eyes, oh her eyes!

It was trite to describe what he felt as an enormous weight being lifted from his shoulders, but that's the only way to describe it. The insecurities, the doubts, the second-guessing niggling at him – all disappeared into eyes abounding with promise.

*_That would be __**TCOT Velvet Claws**__, and I refer to the scene in the novel where __**Perry**__ kisses __**Della**__, and refuses to wipe off her lipstick while Eva Belter tries one last time to seduce Perry. _


	16. Chapter 16

TCOT Absurd Assumption C16

Perry took the high road in regard to Della's date with her former flame Bryce Hummel, and didn't fabricate an excuse to leave as the noon hour approached. Hunkered down in the office, memorizing facts and names and occasionally bouncing ideas or questions off of Della while she took notes or made telephone calls, getting up and pacing a couple times, he was Perry Mason, Attorney at Law again. His disappointment was genuine when she informed him she was meeting Bryce at the restaurant, as she hurriedly touched up her lipstick and scooted out the door.

He could understand Della not wanting her reunion with Hummel to take place in front of him. He had met Bryce Hummel once, and to say the meeting had been awkward would be underplaying it. His opinion of the man, formed by jealousy and preconceived notions, was low as a snake's belly, and it had taken great effort to be civil and not resort to nose-punching. Per the articles of the contract he was not allowed to ask Della what had gone wrong with Hummel, and conversely she was disallowed to tell him even if he did ask. If friends or family knew the reason Della wasn't with Hummel, they had aligned themselves with her and merely walked away if he had the impudence to bring up the man's name.

Still, it would be a big fat lie to say he wasn't anxious about Della's luncheon date with Bryce Hummel. This was the man, after all, he had feared in abstraction for years: the man who could take her away from him; the man Della might be able to marry.

But Della hadn't married Bryce Hummel. Perry continued to struggle with how he felt about that fact nearly three years later, especially in light of her refusal to marry Asher Langlois.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy of his life was finding out too late that Bryce Hummel was no longer part of Della's life, because not only had he dived into Robin Calhoun's bed, there were a couple other beds as well in quick succession before he realized that Robin's was the only bed in which he didn't hate himself completely. If wearing a damnable tie bar to test Della's reaction made him feel foolish today, what he had done after signing that equally damnable contract had only one word strong enough to describe it.

Humiliation.

It has been said that humility is the only defense against humiliation, and Perry Mason had never possessed much humility, so maybe he hadn't recognized it for what it was at the time, but from the distance of time there was a flashing neon sign.

Damn. Self-awareness was a bitch.

At twelve-thirty Perry walked down to the California Cuisine Deli, or CCD as the very perky blonde behind the counter called out in welcome as he entered the establishment. He ordered a California avocado salad because if he was indeed invited to dinner at Della's, the main course was to be a hearty meat and vegetable pie smothered in gravy (he had inquired of the Rochester's chef about what exactly a _pasty_ was), so he didn't want anything heavy sitting in his stomach.

He sat alone at a table by a window, rethinking his views on total honestly for the umpteenth time; on what was proper behavior for an attorney in regard to his client – who also happened to be the love of said attorney's life – on what had been the final straw for Della; on how George Steinbrenner was single-handedly destroying baseball; on how he had lost himself eight years ago the moment he agreed to Harvey's dying plea.

Stepping down from the bench meant he could be who he really was again, and damn anyone who got in his way. He wasn't accustomed to being confused or unsure, so the past few days had been a humbling experience for an unhumble man. And if humiliation and confusion were unfamiliar to him, there was one emotion that was not: jealousy. He was jealous. Frighteningly, consumingly, intensely jealous of any man Della held affection for – including a dead man. He wondered if concentrating on the familiar pangs of jealousy would result in other, unfamiliar emotions losing their sting.

Perry lingered over a bottle of artesian spring water after polishing off a generous portion of salad, staring out the window and indulging in a bit of daydreaming after all the self-evaluation. A single verse of a song played continuously in his brain, one he and Della had often danced to, something about being drunk on dreams*, and he realized how closely the words described how he was feeling now.

Della had been a reality, the most real thing in his life, and then all reality was gone, leaving only memories and dreams, foreign objects to him; insidious, unsatisfying, and disquieting. He had been a successful attorney, he had been in love with a wondrous woman who touched his heart and his mind, and he had been happy. Then he was a judge, the wondrous woman was gone, he was with a different woman he wouldn't allow to touch him in any way but physically, and he was miserable. There was no longer reality for him, because he was no longer real himself, no longer the man he had been. Dreams, the very things he had always derided, became what sustained him, what gave him the tiniest hope of having Della in his life again.

Yes, self-awareness was definitely a bitch.

* * *

><p>David Gordon did not show up for his usual workout until nearly two-forty-five, and despite witnessing a very interesting exchange between Arthur Gordon's only son and a man who could easily be called a 'goon', Perry walked away from the meeting of the mind that David couldn't be at the root of his father's murder because the kid didn't appear to have the guile to hatch a scheme to murder anyone. It would be reckless to rule him out completely, however.<p>

Katherine Gordon's house at the beach was quite a drive from her brother's downtown gym and as Perry navigated the tangled traffic of the city he considered almost sentient, alive with its own distinct personality, the only city he had ever wanted to live in, he wondered if Della was back at the office or if she was still with Bryce Hummel, the man who had taken her away from him…and if he might want to do it again.

Of course, Perry didn't really have Della again, but as in the song, he could dream, couldn't he? Much like him, she wasn't one who would adapt well to retirement, and at her age wouldn't consider retiring, although she had enough hobbies and interests to keep her occupied when she did decide to stop working, as well as an enormous cobbled-together family of 'children' who adored her, and vice-versa.

All of those 'children' – Peggy, Nicky, Abby and Travis, Ronnie, Anne, Scott, Kay-Kay of course, Button, Robert, and the others he couldn't remember at the moment despite the fact Della to this day tried to include him in this unconventional collection of youngsters who had touched _**her**_ heart. And it didn't surprise him in the least how many former clients and members of the legal community sent telegrams, cards, and letters, left messages, or sent flowers. Henny and Valerie volunteered the previous evening to organize everything for Della, to catalog phone messages in notebooks and file the written messages and all the little tokens of luck in letter boxes for when she had time to respond to them. The tokens of luck were mostly four leaf clover and horseshoe charms and medallions in silver and gold; some clovers real and preserved in Lucite; some fashioned from colored gems or rhinestones or enamel. Perry's favorite was the one that arrived first, a white-gold clover with a center diamond set on a swivel between the curved sides of a horseshoe sent by His Honor Craig Atherton, an old friend who recently celebrated his eightieth birthday by marrying the thirty-seven year old ghost-writer assisting him in documenting his years on the bench. Della adored the former judge's educated, articulate new wife, and completely understood the attraction she had for the much older man. Perry had been unable to attend the wedding three months ago due to a prior commitment with Robin Calhoun, but Della had attended with Asher Langlois, and had made a special effort to call and tell him all about the low-key event.

Perry preferred not to think about what might have happened if he had been able to attend Craig Atherton's wedding after having met the genteel Mr. Langlois. If his opinion of Bryce Hummel was low, his opinion of Asher Langlois resided somewhere south of that snake's belly.

The snarled traffic cleared sufficiently to force Perry to concentrate on driving more than on his thoughts until arriving at the Spanish-Grecian fusion home of Katherine Gordon perched over one of the less-populated rocky beaches of Malibu. That was good, because daydreaming wasn't going to solve Della's problems.

* * *

><p>Katherine Gordon's beautifully made-up eyes appraised Perry Mason with the fixed amusement with which she regarded the entire world. "Well, well, well," she drawled, "this is an honor, Mr. Mason." By stepping aside she invited the attorney into the lavish marble floored entryway. He followed youthful swaying hips beneath a flowing silk caftan into a large, ornate living room.<p>

Perry swiftly ran his eyes around the living room, taking in the panoramic ocean views, expensive furnishings and _objects de art _chosen by a designer more for appearance than for the occupant's particular tastes. He liked clean, modern lines, and while the room contained some modern pieces, they were overshadowed by regal columns and archways, heavy rugs juxtaposed against the simplicity of metal and glass. His eyes lingered for a moment on one such piece, the glass coffee table, before returning to the wall of windows.

"You have a beautiful home, Miss Gordon." Property wasn't as sought after on this particular Malibu beach due to the rocky terrain, but it was still mighty pricey.

Katherine folded herself onto a pristine white couch more suited for a simple beach cottage than this ornate, overly decorated house. "It should be for what I paid for it." There was no pride in her reply, only bored disinterest. She shifted her eyes from Perry Mason to the couch and back, but he pretended not to recognize the invitation as he seated himself in a brocade wing chair.

She may have spent the entirety of her mother's trust fund, but at least Katherine had invested more wisely than her brother and sister. "You get what you pay for."

Katherine tilted her head, picking up hidden nuances in the attorney's words. "You certainly do. To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Mason?"

"How did you get along with your father?"

"Please, come right to the point." She laughed disarmingly and toyed with the heavy necklace at her throat. "My father was a cold, remote, tyrant who drove my mother to suicide. He thought I was a tramp. I guess you could say we understood one another."

"Are you always so candid?"

She laughed again. "Thirteen years of analysis helped me admit the true feelings I had for my father without wanting to hang myself as well. I assume you asked that question because you think I had something to do with his murder."

Instead of answering, he asked another question. "Where were you two days ago?"

Katherine Gordon regarded him with coquettish innocence. "I can't recall that far back…"

Perry leveled his gaze at the attractive young woman. "Can you recall who's in the next room?"

Her face remained placid, but a slight shifting of her elegant body beneath the thin silk betrayed her. "The next room? Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Mason?"

Perry nodded toward the glass coffee table and a single cocktail glass. "There were two glasses on that table. There is a wet mark where it sat. Why don't I guess and say that Ken Braddock is in the next room."

"Lucky guess, Perry?"

Perry acknowledged Ken Braddock's voice with a brief sideways glance and satisfied smile. His legal colleague stood in the doorway to the raised dining room, casually attired in slacks and a lightweight sweater, holding the incriminatingly sweaty cocktail glass in his hand. "Not altogether lucky. I noticed at the will reading that you handed your lighter to Katherine instead of merely lighting her cigarette. And that she put your lighter in her purse. That's a fairly intimate thing to do. Both of you."

Ken smiled as he entered the living room. "You're good."

Katherine Gordon's eyes swept over Perry Mason with conspicuous admiration. "He's cute," she said to Ken Braddock while giving Perry Mason a slow, lingering smile. Katherine liked older men. They knew more about how to treat a woman than men her age and were far more satisfying in bed. She especially liked handsome, successful, older men, and Perry Mason was undeniably the epitome of a handsome, successful, older man.

Ken Braddock frowned and Katherine's smile quickly disappeared. Ken lowered himself to the couch next to her and slid his arm along the back cushion. "I'll be honest with you, Perry. As soon as all of this quiets down, I'm filing for divorce." He took a sip of his drink and met Perry's eyes with snarky frankness. "I hope my relationship with Kate will remain confidential." Perry Mason had handed his cigarette lighter to Della Street many, many times over the years, and Ken knew the older attorney would recognize the meaning behind his words.

Perry regarded Ken Braddock soberly. _He could understand that_. "I can understand that." Now he knew why the letter addressed to him had been delivered to Della's house. Cunning bastard.

Ken Braddock took another sip of his drink to hide the satisfied smirk on his lips, knowing he had pinched a nerve of the great Perry Mason, who had spent the past thirty years keeping his 'confidential' relationship just that, and everyone had humored him primarily out of respect for the charming Miss Street. "And for the record, Perry, Kate was with me two days ago. We were right here as usual. My wife thinks I was with a client in San Diego. She'll tell you that if you ask."

_Della and I may have attempted to keep our relationship confidential, but we never lied, and no one else got hurt_, Perry thought, his professional esteem for Ken Braddock surmounted by personal contempt_. _Margaret Braddock was twice the woman Katherine Gordon would ever be. Her only faults were being twenty-five years older and not having just inherited four million dollars. Sometimes the foolishness of his gender sickened him.

Ken Braddock stood suddenly, and Perry relaxed his stance. One thing he knew about Ken Braddock was his complete aversion to confrontation. His _modus operandi_ was to act as the cool-headed negotiator, conciliatory yet calculating, and his smooth, unruffled demeanor had carried him far in his legal career. Landing Arthur Gordon as a client had been a coup – in more ways than one, apparently.

Perry bowed slightly, acknowledging the end to his surprise and interestingly productive visit. "I'll show myself out. See you both in court."

* * *

><p>Maybe he should have asked for a rental car with a telephone.<p>

After leaving Katherine Gordon's house, Perry drove back along the narrow strip of winding road that was Malibu looking for a public telephone, but found none. He parked the car and entered a restaurant, which did not have a telephone for public use, a bar that had a telephone but was too noisy, and finally another restaurant that still had an old-fashioned wooden booth. He sat on the scarred bench as nostalgia swept over him. How many such booths had he and Della called Paul Drake from, sliding in and out, their bodies titillatingly close? And how many such booths, if they could talk, would tell tales about a certain attorney and his beautiful secretary groping one another in uncontrollable lust brought about by sliding in and out of said booth? His hand shook as he dialed the number of Paul Drake's office.

Della's crisply efficient "Good afternoon, Drake Detective Agency" hit below the belt and he was glad to be sitting down in an enclosed space. "Della – it's me."

"Me who?"

He chuckled. "It hasn't been that long."

"Oh, it's _**you**_. Forgive me, but you're the last person I expected to hear from this afternoon. Are you demonstrating the element of surprise?"

"Okay, okay, point taken. Did you have a nice lunch?"

"Yes."

He had hoped for a bit of elaboration, but apparently she was going to be evasive, on top of being a brat. "I just left Katherine Gordon's beach house and I'm on my way back to the city. It will take an hour or more. I'll hit rush hour traffic at its peak."

"Can you make it to the house by six?"

He grinned into the receiver, knowing full well she knew he was grinning. "Easily."

"Good. Bring beer. See you."

She hung up.

Perry had to stay in the booth for several minutes before venturing out, lest he embarrass himself.

_*I Can Dream, Can't I_

_As we eye the blue horizon's bend  
>Earth and sky appear to meet and end<br>But it's merely an illusion  
>Like your heart and mine<br>There is no sweet conclusion_

_I can see no matter how near you'll be  
>You'll never belong to me<br>But I can dream, can't I_

_Can't I pretend that I'm locked in the bend  
>Of your embrace<br>For dreams are just like wine  
>And I am drunk with mine<em>

_I'm aware my heart is a sad affair  
>There's much disillusion there<br>But I can dream, can't I_

_Can't I adore you although we are oceans apart  
>I can't make you open your heart<br>But I can dream, can't I_

Songwriters  
>IRVING KAHAL, SAMMY FAIN<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

TCOT Absurd Assumption C17

They were seven for dinner, Paul Drake being the seventh, and this night the topic of conversation centered exclusively on Della's case. Paul, fueled by three Guinness Extra Stouts and Henny's superb _pasties _(made with turnips instead of rutabagas because according to Bart there wasn't a rutabaga in the entire frigging state of California, and they had been to every damn supermarket_** in the entire frigging state of California**_), obligingly told stories about his adventures on the case thus far, and Perry allowed him great latitude in regard to veracity for the sake of entertainment. Della needed to laugh. She was too quiet, her natural spunk and sass hidden behind a bit of a wistful expression. When Val chided her for being the least talkative person at the table, Della insisted she was enjoying Bart's and Paul's stories and had nothing to add because her day had been far less interesting than everyone else's.

However, her quietness wasn't what bothered Perry the most. What truly concerned him was how she picked at the superb _pasty_ and virtually ignored the stout. When Della didn't drink, something was wrong, and when Della didn't eat, something was _**very**_ wrong. He wondered if her subdued mood had something to do with Bryce Hummel and their luncheon, and then tried to scrub the thought completely from his mind.

Because Henny and Val cooked, clean-up was the responsibility of the men, who quickly loaded the dishwasher and joined the ladies in the living room with coffee and Val's special shortbread lemon squares. Evelyn Uptegraff arrived for her scheduled night of checking on Della, and all eight of them settled down to hear the highly anticipated story of a particular adventure Paul had the previous day.

"And there on the table," he said after setting up the situation more innocently than it had been, "was a woman's wig."

"A woman's wig?" Henny echoed.

Paul nodded. "A curly grey woman's wig."

"Grey?" Della fairly shrieked, shooting a withering glance at Evelyn, her hairdresser for longer than she'd known Perry Mason. "You said this color was dark ash_** blonde**_." Evelyn had been for several years fighting the fact that the paternal side of Della's heritage included prematurely grey hair, and had lightened her friend's once lustrous chestnut curls considerably and interwoven lowlights to disguise the fact a good percentage of it was silver. Carter's thick head of hair was completely grey – white actually, and Della knew what she would look like in a few years without the miracle of hair dye.

Paul cleared his throat. "M-maybe ash blonde is a better description for what color the wig was. I didn't get a very good look at it before Sergeant Stratton cleared the room."

Della ignored Paul's gallant backtracking and leveled her gaze at Perry. "Let me get this straight. My defense will be that Mrs. Jeffries saw a _**man**_ in a _**grey**_ wig wearing _**my **_dress running out of the Gordon house and thought it was _**me**_?

"It's a damn fine defense," Bart interjected and Carter nodded enthusiastically.

"Bart," Val almost hissed.

"You should be worrying more about having that dress shown in open court than your hair color," Paul declared.

Valerie made a disgusted noise and slapped his arm. "Did you borrow a shovel or did you bring your own?"

Paul winced and inched away from Val. "It's not like she picked the dress out," he said defensively.

Della set her cup down on the saucer, placed the saucer on the coffee table, and folded her hands in her lap. "You all may think it's frivolous to be upset that a man in a dress wearing a wig was identified as me, but I'm going to need some time to come to terms with it if you don't mind, since those details are going to be the showcase of my defense. As for the dress, I'm pleading the fifth."

Perry watched Della avoid eye contact with everyone and what Junior said was a lightning bolt of insight: She was embarrassed by the dress. So, she hadn't chosen it herself. Who had?

"Is that what you'll say if the Prosecutor asks?" Bart wanted to know everything about the dress since seeing a picture of it. He was no fashion expert, but he generally liked what Della wore, and was married to a woman who independently bought clothing very similar to Della's, and Val would _**never**_ have bought that dress. Della was far too stylish to fall prey to tacky trends, and the dress ran the gamut of current tacky trends to quote his wife.

"The only fact established in court will be that Della purchased the same dress," Perry interjected. The blood stain on the dress was a strong piece of circumstantial evidence for which he needed to present equally strong counter-evidence. The fact the mere mention of the dress caused Della to blanch visibly would make that a difficult task. How could he play down what was sure to be a centerpiece of the Prosecution's case and save her further embarrassment? Any other client he would have shaken, literally and/or figuratively, and told them harshly to buck up, but not Della. He would find a way to protect her from everything, however large or small.

"But the unspoken question –"

"Will remain unspoken," Perry said firmly. He turned to Paul Drake. "Do you feel confident the salesgirl at the boutique will make a credible witness?"

Paul nodded emphatically. "She identified Bobby Lynch without hesitation as the man who purchased the dress, and showed me a carbon copy of the receipt. We're lucky the dress boutique still uses hand-written sales receipts. The department store is on a computerized register system and unless Bobby paid for the shoes with a credit card, which is doubtful, we stand a snowball's chance in hell of proving he bought the same pair Della did. None of the salesclerks remember him, and they've sold over a hundred pairs of those shoes. The department store clerks don't even remember the most beautiful woman in the world buying those shoes, which I find appalling. Plus, those same shoes are sold in three other stores."

"Nice try at climbing out of that hole, buster," Val told him.

"We'll need to issue a subpoena as soon as possible for the dress boutique salesgirl," Perry said almost absently. "Barbara Scott probably won't think to put her on the stand. She'll rely on Della's statement to Lt. Cooper that she owned a dress that matched the scrap of fabric found on estate grounds. You can stop trying to prove Bobby bought shoes, Paul. We'll have to rely solely on the dress and testimony regarding the wig. We only have tomorrow and the weekend before the preliminary hearing." When he had requested an expedited preliminary hearing he hadn't expected the judge to have a clear calendar the next week or for Barbara Scott to readily agree on such a short time to prepare her case. Perry thought the young prosecutor was practicing a bit of psychology on him and was banking on the element of surprise to trump her hubris.

Paul grinned almost wickedly. "We might still come up with something about the shoes."

"Paul!" Henny exclaimed. "Have you been making advances to salesgirls all over Los Angeles?" She had known Paul since he was a child, accompanying Perry and Della on family vacations with her and Carter and their children. She was well aware of his flirtatious ways. As were her daughters.

"Let's just say my weekend won't be lonely."

"Oh, to be young again," Bart lamented.

"Your weekend will be filled with work," Perry reminded him. "You still have to track down Bobby Lynch's family."

Paul gave Perry an impertinent salute. "Yes sir!"

"Della," Henny said suddenly, "Val and I organized all your messages today. There are four boxes of cards and letters, a box filled with all sorts of jewelry, and twenty pages of telephone messages."

Della looked startled. "Good grief."

"We all know what you're doing this weekend, Della Katherine," Carter said over the rim of his coffee cup. He had helped the women with their chore for a while that morning before embarking on the great rutabaga caper with Bart, and was impressed with the regard so many people had for Della. He recognized names of politicians, authors, sports figures, business tycoons, musicians, and Hollywood celebrities, and a new appreciation for the life she had led with Perry Mason replaced the disesteem in which he had long held her career choice. His sister knew these famous people, yet she had never gratuitously dropped names, because he realized in their circles she was famous herself. People were people to her, whether public figures or ordinary folk such as himself, and he felt…proud of Della.

"No," Perry said emphatically, "Della will not be answering mail until after she's acquitted. I need her to be focused on preparing the case. There are subpoenas to issue and serve, information to organize –"

"She needs to relax, too, Perry," Val interrupted quietly, her voice weak and wheezy after a long day. Henny had tried to get her to take a nap before dinner, but Val had insisted upon making the lemon squares even though she'd sat down several times to use an inhaler. Her pulmonologist had opposed a trip to Los Angeles, arguing that pollution levels would adversely affect the emphysema overtaking her lungs, but Val told the doctor that she was needed in LA and by gosh, she was going. Thin and frail, she coughed horribly with moderate exertion, and had developed fretful repetitive motions a psychologist attributed not so much to the emphysema diagnosis, but primarily to other stressors in her life.

Perry Mason loved his sister-in-law and it killed him to see her so pale and frail. The strength of Val's personality would hold her disease at bay longer than any doctor could predict, but the frightening reality was that she would one day be tethered to an oxygen tank. He knew his brother was scared out of his mind over his wife's illness, and blamed himself for smoking in front of her as much as he had for forty-five years. Valerie had smoked, but mostly socially like Della, and in Bart's mind his lungs should be diseased, not his wife's.

"And she will relax," Perry agreed. "But not until all the work is done."

"Is the work ever done, Perry?" It was Evelyn who spoke aloud what everyone else was thinking.

"The work is done when the client is acquitted," Della supplied the answer. "That's the way it's always been, and that's the way it will be for my case."

"But –" Henny started a protest.

"This isn't a party," Della said brusquely and Perry hid his smile behind a bite of dessert. "I love you all and appreciate that you're here, but we have to let Perry do what he has to do how he has to do it. That's the only way I'll be acquitted, and the reason I hired him as my attorney."

Hired? Perry stared at Della while he chewed. Who had said anything about hiring? Did she think he would present her with a bill after her acquittal?

Paul jumped to his feet as if he'd been goosed. "Speaking of being hired, I've been hired to unearth as much about this case as I can, and I have things to do and people to see. Thanks for dinner, Henny. It was great."

Della followed Paul from the living room to see him out as everyone else dedicated their attention to second helpings of dessert or more coffee.

His hand on the door knob and Della still a few paces behind him, Paul turned to face her. "I left a folder on the desk in the den," he said. "It wasn't difficult to find the information you wanted."

Della brushed unruly blonde curls from Paul's forehead. "Thank you, honey."

"Why did you want information about someone like that?"

She slid her arms around his shoulders and hugged him, rocking slightly. He hadn't realized how tense he was until he felt his entire body relax. No one hugged like Della Street. "That person was nice to me when I was scared and needed a friend. I want to do something nice for them."

Paul kissed Della affectionately. "Can you handle all those mother hens and one really annoying attorney without me?"

Della patted his cheek. "Go meet that salesgirl from the dress boutique."

Paul should have known better than to use work as a cover for a date. "You think you're so smart."

"I'm smart enough to know you're not going to do any work tonight. And so is Perry, by the way."

"Yeah, and I'll be smart enough to ask Jennifer questions about Bobby Lynch so I can put several cocktails on my expense report."

Evelyn entered the foyer and after she and Paul had both left, Della closed the door and spent a moment leaning against it with closed eyes before heading for the den. Junior was so much like his father she just wanted to cry sometimes.

* * *

><p>The lemon squares were gone and no one wanted more coffee, so Bart and Carter took all the dessert dishes into the kitchen to cram them into the dishwasher. Henny and Val remained in the living room, curled up on the couch chatting, while Perry went in search of Della.<p>

He didn't have to search long, and in fact, the den was the first place he looked. She was seated at the desk, a manila file open in front of her, head leaning into her palm as she read. Perry stood in the doorway, watching her, marveling at the pure force of love surging within him. On second thought maybe what he felt wasn't so pure, but it was a natural part of him, like breathing.

He leaned against the door jamb and watched her sift through the contents of the file. Valerie had told him years ago she had never seen a man look at a woman as much as he looked at Della, but why wouldn't he? She was exceptionally…easy on the eyes. Good Lord. He had actually said that to her once*.

"Do you think I'm going to perform some sort of trick?" Della asked, not looking up from the assorted papers in front of her.

"I never know," he confessed. "I was just remembering something I told you a long time ago and how inadequate it was."

She lifted her head and regarded him cautiously. "And what would that be?"

"You encouraged me to put into words how much of a pleasure it was to have someone like you around. I rattled on about trust and loyalty and dependability and how well you knew me…and brilliantly ended with that you were easy on the eyes."

"Was I not trusting and loyal and dependable?" She still knew him well enough to understand he wasn't talking about those particular attributes.

He shook his head. "I should have said you were beautiful." The tie bar maneuver had been a dud. Maybe a more direct stratagem was called for since he no longer had a hotel room. "You still are."

Della pulled a yellow legal pad in front of her and began writing. "You took off your tie bar," she said quietly.

_Ah ha! _"It attracted attention I hadn't intended."

One glorious eyebrow inched upward in amusement. So he _**had**_ worn the tie bar for her benefit. The fortitude it had taken not to mention it before now was colossal. "Do tell."

"Katherine Gordon thinks I'm cute."

Della laughed softly. "Is that all you came away with from your meeting with her?"

"Isn't that enough? Being called cute by an attractive young woman at my age is heady stuff."

"I should have warned you about Kate's penchant for older men."

"Ouch." Perry placed his hand over his heart and winced. "Unfortunately, she is already involved with an older man. Ken Braddock. Did you know that?"

"I suspected."

"Why didn't you mention it?"

"I didn't know for certain. A few months ago Ken's wife began calling at odd hours during the day because his office told her he was either at the Foundation or with Arthur when he wasn't, and I noticed certain things in the way Ken treated Kate whenever I saw them together – which was increasingly often."

"Ken says that as soon as everything quiets down, he's filing for divorce."

Della sighed. "Poor Margaret. I like her. She should get a verynice settlement as well as child support and alimony. Their youngest was an 'oops' baby and just started high school."

Perry gave her a searching look. "Don't you like Ken Braddock?"

Della shrugged. "He's pleasant enough, and was respectful and business-like whenever I had to deal with him, but there was always something…_**oily**_ about the way he looked at me."

Yes, that was exactly how he looked at me as well, Perry thought. _"I hope my relationship with Kate will remain confidential."_ Ken's smile had nearly slid off his face for the oiliness of that statement. _"I can understand that."_ And Ken knew he could, damn him. Everything suddenly seemed to lead back to those private choices Della hoped would remain private and he'd promised to keep private.

"Did you find out anything useful?"

"I might have," Perry answered vaguely.

"Do you want to go over your meetings with David and Katherine while they're still fresh in your mind?

_Since you didn't come back to the office_, Perry tacked on what went unspoken in her question. "No. We'll do that tomorrow. Right now I want to know what is in that file. Did you give Paul a side job?" The boy didn't need any more distractions, considering he was probably on his way to meet one of the sales clerks he had been interviewing.

Della closed the file and tore off the sheet of yellow paper she'd written on, held it in her hand, weighing conflicting thoughts. "Just something personal. It didn't take much time." She folded the paper, stood, and walked over to stand in front of him. "Please don't lecture me about keeping Paul focused on my case, because technically it involves my case."

He took the paper from her and unfolded it. "Who is Collier Jessup?"

"He's the husband of a girl I met in jail. She was nice to me, and I'd like to do something nice for her."

Perry glanced at the paper again. "His wife is Adelaide?"

Della nodded. "She married Collier when she was fourteen, and he dragged her all the way out here from a holler in Kentucky so he could be a movie star. So far all he's done is bit parts in soft porn flicks and some catalog modelling work, and even that has mostly dried up, according to what Paul found out. I suspected as much. Adelaide is working the streets, calling herself Lady, to support Collier and her baby."

"How does any of this figure into your case?"

"I told you – she was nice to me in jail. She's quick and smart and if she didn't have to walk the streets, I would be very happy."

"What do you have in mind to get her off the streets?" Underneath Della's spunk and sass lay a most tender heart, which is precisely why Henny and Valerie were sorting through mountains of mail for her and shifting flower arrangements from room to room as more arrived daily.

Della hesitated, chewed her bottom lip, and dropped her gaze. "C-could you…would you…would you ask Max Parrish if his talent agency would take on Collier as a client?" Her words came out in a rush now. "There are pictures of him in the file. He's a handsome boy, but his accent is so thick agents don't want to take him on – there aren't many parts for someone from a holler in Kentucky no matter how good-looking he is, but everyone says he has talent, he just doesn't speak well. He plays several instruments, writes songs, and sings, and he could be a very profitable client for Max if he got the right breaks."

Perry tipped Della's chin so that her eyes met his. "And you think that by giving her husband a _**legitimate**_ break, Lady can stop…working?"

Della nodded, eyes huge and hopeful.

He smiled. "I'll call Max tomorrow. I can't promise anything, but I'll call."

"Thank you, Perry."

They stood inches apart, eyes locked, for several silent seconds. Asking for such a favor was difficult for Della. She had briefly met Max Parrish a few years ago when he first joined the talent management agency that now bore solely his name, and had one enlightening conversation with his wife on the telephone the same evening. Perry kept his friendship with the Parrish family to himself, as Della kept some of her own friendships to herself, and aside from knowing Max Parrish had become very successful in the talent industry, she knew very little about the man or his family. Except for one very important thing...

"I was thinking…" Perry began, Della's chin still snugly held in his hand.

"Uh oh."

"Hear me out before you sass me. We have a lot of work to do between now and the prelim."

"Yes. I understand I will be typing and filing and organizing."

"It's fortunate you do all those things well."

"I suppose it is. For you."

Perry released her chin and eased past her to enter the den. He dropped down onto the new sleeper sofa she had bought to replace the old couch from the Brent Building office. "What do you always say? Stop it. Tell me what's irritating the oyster."

Della took his place in the doorway, arms and ankles crossed. "You are. I never know if you're going to be Perry Mason or someone who looks like Perry Mason but acts like a complete stranger."

"I promise from here on out I will be no one but Perry Mason, however good or bad that may be."

"It's good," Della said again in that same quiet voice as before. She uncrossed her arms and seemed to rock forward hesitantly before committing to crossing the room to where he sat and lowering herself beside him on couch.

Perry held out his hand and after a half second of contemplation, Della lightly rested hers against his upturned palm. "I'm sorry if I made you uneasy about…hiring me to be your attorney, Della. I was supposed to swoop in and save the day as if I hadn't been out of the courtroom for the past eight years, but reality is a hard pill to swallow, and I did a bad job of hiding my insecurities from my client."

"I haven't been worried, Perry. Irritated is actually the best word for how I've been. I have confidence in you."

One corner of Perry's mouth twitched. "You always did."

"And you never let me down."

_Yes, I did. I let you down the most_. "I promise, Della, you will be acquitted."

"Yes."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know you won't."

"Tomorrow we'll start blocking out your defense and issuing subpoenas. Barbara Scott doesn't stand a chance."

Della smiled tiredly. "Sounds like a busy day. What time do you want me at the office?"

He placed his other hand over hers and applied gentle pressure. The dark circles under her eyes were worrisome, and knowing he was partially to blame for them cut him to the quick. "How about we have breakfast together and get to the office around nine."

Della tried not to sigh at the prospect of getting up early, because sleep continued to be nothing more than a passing acquaintance, but he'd been disappointed when she couldn't have lunch with him, so she owed him a at least breakfast. Which reminded her – he hadn't inquired about her luncheon with Bryce Hummel. That damn contract and his damnable discipline. "Sure. Where and what time do you want to meet? Maybe the Rochester dining room?"

"I was thinking your kitchen at seven forty-five"

"No, it's too far out of your way –"

_Now or never, Perry my lad_. "It won't be out of my way if I stay here tonight."

She looked at him, startled, and blinked several times. "What about the code of ethics? Lawyers can't stay in their client's houses."

"They can when it's full of chaperones."

"You made that up."

His erupting laughter made her jump a little. He never could put one over on her, so why did he even try? "Yes, I did. But it makes sense. We have a lot to do, and if I stay here, we'll have more time to prepare for the hearing this weekend and for you to relax so Val will get off my back."

"I have been feeling left out," Della admitted, a tiny twinkle in her tired eyes. "You and Paul were having all the fun."

"Then it's settled. Kitchen, seven forty-five, for _Wheaties_ and toast."

"You really go all out for a girl, don't you?" She let out a three-note yawn. One of his favorite things in the world was how she 'sang' her yawns.

"Breakfast of champions," he declared. "We have to be so far ahead of Barbara Scott all she'll see is the dust we kick up as we run past her."

Della squeezed his hand, then abruptly withdrew hers, and sprang to her feet. She moved to the desk and yanked open a drawer, pulled out an olive green hanging file, then plopped herself back down next to Perry on the couch. The file fell open in her lap, revealing a small pile of defaced cocktail napkins.

He stopped breathing. Or thought he did.

The contract. He kept his copy in a small fire safe she had given him as a house-warming gift when he moved to San Francisco and she kept her copy in an unlocked drawer of her – their – desk. Obviously he had been holding the contract in far higher regard than she.

"Della –" Perry began, but Della shook her head.

"This is my conversation to start." She fingered through their 'contract', selecting one napkin and holding it out to him. "I need you to do something, and this napkin is standing in the way of it."

Perry glanced at the napkin. Article III, the physical contact clause. He was almost afraid to ask. "What do I need to do?"

"Kiss me," she said in a wavering voice. "You need to kiss me."

Well.

Well, well.

Well, well, well.

Indeed.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice the tie bar ploy, Perry?"

Another thing he had always admired about Della Street was her ability to take charge of a situation when he couldn't seem to.

"I know it's not fair to Robin and I'm not even sure you want to, but we need to get it out of the way, so that –"

Perry leaned across the space between them and kissed her, beyond a shadow of a doubt, for real. No build-up, no preparation, no anticipation. That wasn't true at all – the anticipation had been escalating since the moment she collapsed against him in jail and the build-up had been every moment they'd spent together since.

Her lips were as soft as ever, full and inviting, and his lips, usually sure of their course and intent, nearly quivered with the thrill of touching them again.

The surprised expression on Della's face when he pulled back from the kiss was priceless. "Okaaaay, Article III is formally breached."

He could have laughed deliriously at that moment. She was so…so…so _**Della**_, and for the first time in a long time he felt fully himself_**. **_He wanted to kiss her again. And again, and again. "What do we do now?" _Please say we keep on kissing…_

"You will check out of the Rochester and stay here until I'm acquitted." She had thought this out. "We will go to the office together, have dinner with our families after work, give each other a friendly good night kiss if either of us is so inclined, after which we will go to our separate bedrooms, and when I'm acquitted, we will have a long, long talk. What do you think about that?"

Perry regarded her with reflective tenderness. "Della, I checked out of the Rochester this morning."

"Of course you did," she said, patting his hand.

_*Refer to the novel __**TCOT Screaming Woman**_


	18. Chapter 18

_Note: It is said in baseball that a team lives and dies by it's pitching. Tiger fans learned that was all too true this fall as the bullpen killed our chances for a World Series Championship. _

TCOT Absurd Assumption 18

Della stood up from the chair, reaching for the ceiling in a languid stretch, and despite her left arm being a little sore from the blood test Perry decided she had to have that morning, bent and touched the floor without much effort, palms placed flat on the sculpted carpet.

A piercing whistle from long ago approved of her accomplishment. "Wow."

Della straightened quickly and shook already tousled _**ash blonde**_ curls, startled for the second time that the whistler was a boyish version of Paul Drake Sr. and not her beloved friend himself. "Your father used to knock," she said, slightly shaken.

"This is my office," Paul Jr. reminded her, grinning impertinently.

"So it is."

"Where did you learn to do that?" No wonder Perry…he shook his head to rid himself of that horrifying vision.

"Endless hours of standing at the ballet barre."

Paul gave her a contemplative look. "Yes, that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"How every movement you make is graceful and polished."

Della blushed becomingly. "I doubt that…"

"I should have figured it out sooner. Or you could have told me sooner."

"I don't talk about it. Ballet wasn't something I particularly liked. Kind of like how you felt about the Boy Scouts."

Paul struck a pose, one hand over his heart, one hand in the air, and began to recite:

_I promise to do my best_

_To do my duty to God and my country,_

_To help other people, and_

_To obey the Law of the Pack._

"Not bad since my career as a Boy Scout ended at _webelo_. Anything else you haven't told me Mystery Woman?"

"It might do you well to remember that pledge when dealing with Perry."

"He only thinks he's God. He's really just a dictator with a God-complex and I should rebel. Tell me about those endless hours of ballet."

"If I tell you, I won't be a Mystery Woman any longer, just the boring old woman who loves you."

Paul pulled her into a quick hug. "I love you, too. You could never be boring, and you definitely aren't old."

"My gallant gentleman."

Paul walked over to his father's desk and pulled open a drawer. "What are you doing here so late on a Friday night? If you leave now it will be six-thirty before you get home." In the old days, the stories went, as Perry's secretary Della rarely left the office before seven, and often stayed up on cases for days at a time, but as the Defendant he knew she had promised to be home by six every night.

"Perry wanted information on the Gordon Foundation. I'm waiting for him to come back from a deposition…what are you doing here?" Their chaste good-night kiss the night before and breakfast of champions that morning had been well…the word _**wonderful**_ came to mind…and driving to work together made her nostalgic for those rare, special workday nights they slept over at each other's apartments or when Perry got up early and drove to her apartment first thing in the morning to take her out for breakfast, before she had any coffee. Sometimes he was a glutton for punishment.

"I came to take out a little insurance policy. Bobby Lynch's family lives in Acton and I don't want to make the trip there unprotected." After talking to an ex-wife Sgt. Stratton had clued him in to, he got the distinct impression the Lynches were nothing if not anti-social. Bobby married and divorced the former Luanne Strabler in Nevada, which was why Paul hadn't found her himself, and because of that she hadn't interacted with his family much. The time he spent talking with her in the bar where she hoped to launch her musical career wasn't completely wasted. He found out where the Lynches lived. And he had Luanne's telephone number.

"Acton? I just read something about Acton…" she took a few steps over to the table and fanned out a pile of papers resting next to the IBM Selectric typewriter. "Here it is. The Gordon Foundation has a solar power project in Acton. I'm not familiar with it so I'll need to do some more research."

Paul snatched the paper from her and scanned the data quickly before thrusting it back into her hands. "That's got to be our tie-in – Bobby Lynch to the Foundation project in Acton."

"And to Paula." Della bit her lip. She hadn't meant to say that. At least not so quickly.

Paul headed over to the desk again. He bent from the waist, removed a false bottom from the drawer and pulled out a blued steel revolver Della had no idea was there. He spun the cylinder and tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers.

"You'd better talk to Perry about that," Della warned, nodding toward the gun on his hip. Paul Sr. had carried a gun in a concealed cross draw shoulder holster, and on occasion Perry had worn a gun in a belt holster at the small of his back, but to see Paul Jr. with a gun filled her with maternal dread. Perry would blow a gasket. If she told him.

Paul strode purposely toward the doorway, waving off her words. "I hope I won't have to use it, but I know exactly what to do with a gun. See you in court." And he was out the door.

Della sighed and sat down in front of the typewriter, glancing at her wristwatch as she did so. Perry should be there any minute to take her home, where Val's dinner of _paella_ awaited…

Paul banged back into the office, headed straight for the desk, opened the drawer, pulled up the false bottom, and scavenged for items that rolled around noisily and made Della smile from the recognizable sound.

"Bullets," Paul confirmed, walking briskly past her and dumping the overlooked items into his pocket.

Della sighed again. Oh heavens. She might have to tell Perry about the gun after all.

* * *

><p>The crisp white <em>Gran Reserva<em> Spanish wine Perry selected for dinner Friday evening was a perfect complement to Valerie's excellent _paella _(Bart and Carter had been more successful in locating saffron threads than a rutabaga), as was the sweet _Malaga_ dessert wine served in Della's sparingly used etched sherry glasses along with a caramel topped vanilla custard _flan _prepared in little ceramic dishes Val called _ramekins_. If nothing else, Della decided, having her family around meant she would be well-fed, as well as constantly schnockered.

Dinner conversation centered on the coming weekend and if Perry and Della would be able to accompany everyone on a trip to the ocean or whether preparations for the upcoming preliminary hearing would send them to the office or keep them closed in the den all day. Perry had moved his luggage into the den on Thursday night amid mixed gazes of approving and disapproving eyes, but there were no direct words spoken to Perry or Della about the predictable event, and he merged seamlessly into the ebb and flow of daily life at Della's house.

Della slept better than she had in months, possibly years, Thursday night.

Friday night was another story altogether, however, as no one had given any thought to the curiosity of a cat prone to random nocturnal visits.

Finding the cat in bed with him in the den brought forth an alarmingly feminine scream from Perry, and as everyone came hurrying down the stairs to investigate the strange noise, Chief streaked by them, tail exploded, into the kitchen, and out his cat door.

Perry could be heard cussing up a storm in the den, and when Bart flipped on the overhead light, he was revealed in just pajama bottoms hopping around on one foot, repeating "shit, damn, hell" over and over, interspersed with "damn cat", "broken toe", and "heart attack".

Della was the first to laugh – she usually was when it came to Perry. No one else quite knew when it was all right to laugh around Perry, who needed time to process a situation before being able to laugh at himself. Miscalculations in timing meant that his family had been on the receiving end of thunderous looks and a lightning-quick temper more times than they could count, but never Della.

Perry limped over to the sleeper sofa and sat down on the edge, yanking the thrown-back covers over his legs. "How in hell did that cat get in here? I closed the door."

"Wiggle your toes, Perry," Henny commanded. "If you can wiggle them, nothing is broken."

Perry glowered at the assemblage of pajama-clad relatives (all except for Bart, who was in shorts and t-shirt and holding Valerie's pink terrycloth robe in front of him) and wiggled his toes. "It hurts."

"You'll live," Bart announced. "Back to bed, everyone. Morning comes early."

Della lagged behind. "I'll close the door tighter," she said, laughter still very apparent in her voice as she switched the light off. Moonlight streamed in through the window from above wooden privacy shutters. "Chief likes you. You should be honored he wanted to sleep with you."

"Did you feel that way about that careless kitten of Helen Kendal's or the caretaker's cat?" Perry asked irritably, heart still pounding from the scare, feeling every beat painfully in the toes he'd stubbed on the metal frame of the fold-out bed. He had never had a pet, so finding the cat in bed with him had been traumatic and he'd leapt up and out immediately. He was much more comfortable with human beings in bed with him, preferably of the female type and named Della. He rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair. "Don't answer that. I already know what you're going to say."

"Do you need a slug of whiskey?"

"No, I don't need a slug of whiskey."

Della continued to linger, a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth. "Good. Because as you know, I don't have any whiskey."

"What I need to know," he went on grumpily, despite his own smile beginning to betray how foolish he felt, "is if I'll wake up again with a cat in my armpit."

Della giggled delightedly. "What I wouldn't have given to see that…"

"I believe you said something about making sure the door was closed more tightly...?"

"You might have to lock the door. Cats don't like closed doors and because the doors in this house have handles and not knobs, Chief figured out how to open them."

"Isn't that clever of him," Perry muttered, punching one of the pillows. The bed, although a fold-out, was comfortable, and sleep had come very easily snuggled beneath sheets and blankets that smelled like all of his best memories.

"Yes it is clever. Does your bruised ego need a make-it-better kiss?"

Good Lord.

Miss Della Street was flirting with him.

He may have stopped breathing again.

"That depends on where it is you think my ego resides." He had meant to be flirtatious as well, not crude. Crudeness had always been a turn-off for Della. Had he been crude? The last thing he wanted was to be crude. He wasn't generally a crude person. With his men friends he could be crude, but not with women…

She giggled again and Perry was glad he was partially covered by rumpled bedclothes. Who was this flirty girl who looked so much like Della Street, barely dressed and drenched in moonlight? "The ego, Mr. Mason, according to Dr. Freud, resides in your psyche."

"And how do you kiss a person's psyche?"

Della moved through the shaft of moonlight that split the room, her beauty causing it to instantly cower shamefully behind a cloud. She came to a halt in front of him, bent from the waist, draped her arms over his bare shoulders, and kissed him. For long moments her lips teased and tasted, parried and sparred, invited then disinvited, nearly driving him insane. He never wanted the kiss to end, wanted to plunder the depths of her mouth for all eternity, but she wouldn't allow it. Her laugh was soft and tender when she ended the kiss, removing his hands from her hips (when and how they got there was a _**complete mystery**_ to him) and stepping back toward the door.

"That's how," she whispered before turning and exiting the room, pulling the door closed softly.

Come to find out, Della had _**always**_ kissed his psyche. And very possibly she had _**always**_ flirted with him and he had never realized it.

For the second time in two days he had to sit uncomfortably for a length of time before moving.

And everyone was so sure _**he**_ was taking advantage of _**Della's**_ situation.

* * *

><p>Friday morning Perry and Della had eaten their breakfast of champions alone in companionable ease, but Saturday the kitchen was a hub of activity when Della finally emerged from her bedroom. The sight before her brought forth an involuntary gasp.<p>

Perry was making waffles. Perry only made waffles once a year, on their anniversary. In June. Perry hadn't made waffles in five years.

That she knew about.

Four years ago there had been no waffles because of a very important appeal before the Court, and Perry couldn't get away for their anniversary. When the hearing portion of the appeal had ended, Aunt Mae's doctor recommended 'round the clock care and all their energy had been directed at finding the most suitable place for her to reside and be treated for the dementia so brutally robbing her of her personality.

Three years ago…well, three years ago Mae was fighting a bad cold, Della was working sixty hour weeks because Gordon Industries had just bought a small components company, Perry's friend Max Parrish had moved to LA the month before, and Della had accepted a dinner invitation from Bryce Hummel. Their anniversary celebration was postponed until the Fourth of July holiday – when she had shown up with Paul Jr. and spent two nights hugging the edge of Perry's bed because the boy might hear them if they got any closer, which was as good an excuse as any to camouflage her confused state of mind. Perry was understandably bewildered by her behavior, but didn't create any scenes, and on the third night she crossed the invisible line she'd drawn between them and they'd made love slowly and with a quiet gentleness that made her cry.

Because she knew it would be the last time they made love.

"There's the sleepyhead," Bart boomed as Della entered the kitchen. "It seems my little brother, even at his advanced age, can still surprise me. He's making waffles."

"We're eating dinner early," Perry pointed out. "With a big breakfast no one has to worry about lunch."

Della climbed up onto a stool and thanked Henny with her eyes for the mug of coffee she placed in front of her sister-in-law. Usually Della was one of the first to rise, but the healing kiss to Perry's ego had definitely jostled her own psyche and she hadn't fallen back to sleep until nearly dawn and then the aroma of percolating coffee had pretty much forced her out of bed a few hours later. She and Perry had a lot to do and if there was any hope of breaking away for a trip to see the stormy ocean, they needed to get started as soon as possible.

For some reason Della wanted to spend time at the beach. She had issued several subpoenas the day before, running to the courthouse to wait for an available judge to sign them and then meeting Paul literally on a street corner to hand them over to him for delivery. Perry was at the LA County Recorder's office procuring a copy of the Gordon pre-nup himself since the boy hadn't gotten around to it yet, for which Della assumed blame because of her request to gather information about Collier and Adelaide Jessup, and just that morning for information about Lou as well, which a) Perry didn't know about, b) would be more difficult to dig up since all she knew was the girl's first name – and it might not be her real name – and c) was the reason Paul was on a street corner when she gave him the subpoenas. She still had the solar power project in Acton to research, as well as Perry's notes about his meeting with Katherine Gordon and Ken Braddock to type up. Perry would want to start the Prosecution Attack, i.e., what they called setting the scene with the witnesses the DA would most likely call to the stand and brainstorming a list of probable questions. Della played the witness and Perry played the Prosecutor of course, and every conceivable bit of expected testimony would have several contradicting explanations when they were done.

Perry would pace, because there was still one major piece of the puzzle missing for him, and that was who had hired Bobby Lynch. Possibly the reason Perry had been so successful as a criminal attorney was that he didn't merely prove his clients innocent, he typically fingered the true murderer in doing so. While he might use legal slights of hand in regard to evidence and events in cases, to rearrange them as it were, he would never suppress or corrupt evidence (well, not for more than a couple of days anyway), and when it became clear to him who had committed a crime and why, he felt it his duty to share what he knew – eventually – usually in grand fashion during the preliminary hearing, because truth be told, Perry was profoundly bored by the jury selection process and preferred not to perform in front of a jury. It was a matter of pride for him to avoid that boredom and conclude his cases in the preliminary hearing stage, thereby saving the People unnecessary trial costs. He estimated his approach to defending his clients had saved the good People of California several millions of dollars – minus a few thousand for the handful of cases that had progressed to jury trials whether by design or happenstance.

Carter was at the stove, trussed up in a filly apron once again, frying bacon and scrambling eggs, the two things he could actually cook. His grandmother had controlled the kitchen the first thirty-eight years of his life, and if either he or his father dared to prepare food, it was with strict instructions as to what was right and wrong, which resulted in bland eggs and soggy bacon – that is until marriage and children had taught him about the joys of salt and pepper and crispy bacon. He had run with it, and on occasion had actually been known to – gads! – liberally apply hot sauce to his eggs.

"You look better in that apron than I do, Carter," Della commented after a big sip of piping hot coffee.

"If I keep getting compliments, it might make its way into my luggage."

Della choked on her second sip of coffee. Carter making a joke? Had she fallen into _The Twilight Zone_? Wasn't being accused of murder enough of a shock to her system?

Henny patted her husband's behind affectionately and even Bart cleared his throat uncomfortably at seeing the display of playful affection. Val laughed wheezily, and patted her own husband's behind.

Perry raised his eyebrows. Della was concentrating on her coffee, studiously avoiding his gaze. She had seen, he knew she had seen everything, but maybe behind-patting fell underneath another article in the contract. If so, he could live with operating under the article they had breached for as long as it took to figure out where behind-patting fell.

All he could do was hope it wouldn't take two years this time.

The first batch of waffles was divided between the ladies and Bart, who had no cooking chores. Della had almost forgotten how good Perry's waffles were, a recipe he claimed to have received as payment from a client and improved upon, and she had no doubt about either claim. Winifred Laxter had not paid him, not directly, and Perry couldn't resist tinkering with recipes. She had decided many years ago that vanilla extract was his secret ingredient, along with ice water. Perry claimed his waffles were good because he made them with love – possibly the only truly mushy thing he had ever said. She couldn't argue with that claim either, because deep in her heart she'd known it to be true.

But even knowing that deep in her heart hadn't kept her from…she couldn't follow that path. Not now. Not when her entire life was in his hands. If she ever wanted any other part of her in his hands again, she had to play the game very carefully.

But what game was she playing? Della excelled at cards and board games, but human games baffled her. The proof was that the one human game she tried to play she lost badly; soundly trounced, thoroughly thrashed, skunked, humiliated, demoralized. Why she thought she could play another game with the highest of stakes scared the life out of her, but if she won, there would be life again.

And to feel alive again was worth the risk.

* * *

><p>Della saw the ocean, and Perry was glad he tagged along, despite preferring desert scenery. The need to organize his thoughts and go over the Prosecutor Attack a couple more times took a back seat to admiring the awe inspiring power of the surf, even if it meant being not perfectly prepared for Barbara Scott. He attempted to show enthusiasm, because he was glad to be there, but other thoughts occupied his mind, and Della saw right through him.<p>

Della tried to think things through the way Perry would. He was fighting for her, had made promises to her, and because he was Perry Mason, he kept his promises. He insisted that she go to the beach because they were able to accomplish a lot very quickly, and if he didn't let her relax, Valerie might smack him. And if he stayed behind, Valerie would surely smack him. Perry tried to avoid being smacked whenever possible.

They had made quick progress, due largely to Gordon Industries and the Compaq desktop computer with a word processing program called _WordStar_ ported to DOS…and that was where she lost him. He did wind up admiring the machine and the program immensely, as it allowed her to quickly revise documents and print them out on letter-sized paper edged with holes that snaked through a dot matrix printer…and he was lost again. Tear off the holes at a perforation, and _viola_! a perfect document in a quarter of the time it would have taken her to completely re-do the entire document, as well as a superb cat toy in the long strings of discarded holes if Chief's antics were interpreted correctly. There was even what she called a spreadsheet program incongruously named _Lotus_ that automatically lined up columns, added, subtracted, alphabetized, and for all he knew accepted data telepathically. He missed the _clack clack_ of her old manual typewriter, but the newer keyboards of electric typewriters and now computers allowed her to have longer fingernails, which was something she had always wanted and he came to realize he always had too.

Upon their return from the beach, after stopping at a supermarket for more supplies, including gin, pearl onions, and anchovy-stuffed olives for martinis, Perry and Della holed up in the den for another two hours reworking the Attack before Valerie burst in on them and demanded that they stop working and help with dinner preparations.

Usually when Bart made his specialty of deep-fried chicken, his family ate at an enormous coffee table covered with newspaper, but Della's coffee table was far too small to accommodate six of them, plus Kay-Kay, whose night it was to check on the Defendant and who would arrive early due to the long drive back to her family in Covina, so Val covered the kitchen island as well as the oak pedestal table with five day's-worth of newspapers and laid out paper plates, napkins, plastic dinnerware and several candles. Della appreciated the candles, as she had once set a table at Valerie's house the very same way. She just hoped no one put any of the candles in the refrigerator when cleaning up. Bart was mixing the martinis. Things could get dicey.

The chicken was superb, the onion rings sublime, but it was Della's savory cole slaw that made the meal. No one cared that they were greasy up to their elbows and could hear arteries clogging with each passing second. Kay-Kay declared she had never eaten a better meal and begged for recipes, positive her finicky sons would love everything. She watched Bart like a hawk preparing the cocktails because her husband would buy her diamond earrings if she made him such a martini.

Kay-Kay left after desert, which was hand-packed raspberry sherbet, to make her report to Janet, and when the kitchen had been thoroughly scrubbed and left with open windows to air out, Henny declared it was time to play poker.

No surprise, Della was the ultimate victor, collecting all 300 wooden matches staked for the game. What was a surprise was how she burst into tears following her victory and couldn't be consoled and couldn't tell anyone what the matter was.

Because nothing was the matter. The matter was all good. The matter was _**great**_, and she simply couldn't admit what caused her tears.

She was facing a charge of murder, and all she wanted was for the day to never end.

* * *

><p>Sunday began with a no-fuss breakfast at eight and four hours of working non-stop on the Attack. Della had organized Perry's rebuttal for every bit of conceivable prosecutorial testimony imagined, and all of Della's research and Paul's pilfered police reports were contained in color-coded folders. Perry had paced for forty-five minutes, still unwilling to pin the murder of Arthur Gordon on any one of the most likely suspects, and was understandably keyed-up. It had to be someone in the man's dysfunctional family. There was nothing in his business dealings that led Perry to think any of his colleagues would want him dead. He made too much money for them. No one would kill the cash cow if there was no hope of inheriting some of the milk, even if he was cold and calculating in his business dealings.<p>

For dinner Della marinated an enormous flank steak in a vinegar, Worcestershire and dry mustard mixture and called it a _London Broil. _Della wept again during dinner, claiming it was because the marinade made the beef melt in her mouth, but not even gullible, literal Carter bought that excuse.

Perry suspected Della's weepiness involved him to a certain degree, and kept a fair distance between them, even when closeted together in the den. The breach of Article III had been titillating, though possibly premature. Maybe the kissing should have waited until after the preliminary hearing…but then the past three nights wouldn't have ended so beautifully and he wouldn't have slept as well, so he put that silly notion right out of his mind.

There was tension between them all that food, drink, or games couldn't eradicate fully. It was decided the Sunday Night Movie on ABC would be diverting, and they all settled down with bowls of cheese popcorn to let the problems of non-existent people overshadow real life, and for two hours everyone's attention was sidetracked from Della's predicament – except for when a teaser for the local news station mentioned the hearing. But the instant the movie ended, silence descended, and first Mr. and Mrs. Street and then Mr. and Mrs. Mason went to bed.

Perry and Della cleaned up Bart's mess from the popcorn silently, and just as silently he walked her up the stairs, stopping short of entering her bedroom, leaning in for a silent, tender kiss. It was more than he expected, less than he wanted, but the fact they were kissing at all was a miracle in itself. Even though the kissing had been her idea, Della was tentative, eyes guarded and apprehensive.

"Everything's going to be all right, Della. You have my word." Kissing Della only made the need to touch more than her lips all that more reckless, and then everything might not be all right.

Her fingers trailed down his cheek gently. "Are you upset with me?"

"Why would I be upset with you?"

"We didn't work as much as you wanted today. And – and I…I've been crying a lot. I know you don't like it when clients cry."

Perry drew in a breath and let it out slowly, as her fingers, feather soft, caressed his face, sending shivers through his body. "Baby, if you want to cry, go ahead and cry. We worked plenty today. The only thing I don't know for certain is who hired Bobby Lynch, and I'm counting on Paul to come up with something to connect the dots. I didn't somehow miss a phone call from him today, did I?"

Della shook her head, avoiding his eyes and a confrontation. Did he have to call her baby? It was the first endearment he had ever used for her, long ago before she knew he was the man she would spend more than half her life with. Hearing it now made her long for those simpler days.

"Della, he knows you have faith in him. He won't let you down." Perry was counting on that.

Della looked at him then. "That's a switch – you defending Paul to me."

"There's no use in criticizing him now." It wasn't any use. No use at all. "He's all we've got." He trusted himself enough to brush a stray curl from her forehead.

Della bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "I'm sorry for crying. It wasn't about…about the hearing. It was about other things…" _Things like_ _I don't want to be alone tonight in that huge bed…things like you're being so nice and you've called me both darling and baby but you probably don't even realize you did and I want to cry and…oh hell!_ Tears welled in her eyes.

"Della, if anyone is entitled to a good cry, it's you." It had taken thirty years, but he finally knew how to deal with her tears. And it wasn't that he didn't like it when clients cried, he just knew that usually those who cried were insincere. There wasn't anything insincere about Della Katherine Street. Her tears sprang from deep, honest emotion.

She shook her head vehemently, blinking furiously. "No, I shouldn't have…not as much as I did…I'm not worried, really I'm not. Other things…"

"Other things…?"

Her fingers slapped his face lightly and he laughed. "Other things."

"Tell your attorney about these other things."

"My attorney doesn't need to know about them. He needs to concentrate on the hearing tomorrow."

"Then tell _**me**_."

She folded her arms across her chest and he knew he would get nothing more out of her. "I haven't figured out who _**you**_ are yet. When I do, _**if**_ I do, maybe I'll tell you." She felt light-headed and weak, tempted to follow the path of the waffle, because she had tried to stop loving him, had willed herself to stop, had done everything she could to stop…and her failure to stop was elephantine in its grandeur.

Perry couldn't believe his ears. Had he really heard that word?

_Maybe_.

When Della said 'maybe' what she really meant was 'eventually yes'._ Oh baby, figure it out soon. _ "I hope I'm your friend, Della." He had once been her boss, her friend, and her lover. Today the best he could hope to be was one out of three, but he would gladly take it.

"You are," she whispered, placing her hands palms down on his chest over his wildly beating heart. She lowered her head and smiled. Her heart was beating just as wildly.

Inviting Perry to spend the night with her would be the best bad idea in the world. She knew it and he knew it. Sorting through the chaos of what they felt for each through intimacy – something at which they were exceptionally proficient – and exploring the baser aspects of those feelings the night before her preliminary hearing was outright crazy. He wouldn't say no if she asked, his willpower as frazzled as hers, his emotions as jangled as hers, his attraction as staggering as hers. He would forget Robin Calhoun, forget the awful years of separation, forget what loomed tomorrow…but she couldn't. She wouldn't talk about it, but she wouldn't forget. Long ago he had been the sensible one, and right now she needed to regain her crown of sensibility.

"Good night, Perry," she whispered, applying the tiniest bit of pressure with her hands against his chest.

He hadn't expected to be invited into her bedroom, so being pushed away wasn't as severe a blow as it could have been. A blow to be sure, but one he had to take in stride considering the circumstances. He knew it, and she knew it. "Good night, baby."

Perry left Della at her bedroom door and made his way slowly to the den, which was silent and lonely. With the walls seeming close enough to touch from the center of the room, he decided he needed someone to talk to who wouldn't judge him, someone who held Della in as high esteem as he did, and could understand all the conflicting emotions the past week had brought to light.

And so Perry Mason, feared and revered Attorney at Law, went in search of Della's cat, prowling around the yard calling for Chief in an urgent whisper. It was unfathomable why he felt he needed the cat, but when Chief poked his grey head with the big black tabby 'M' through the egress hole in the fence, Perry nearly danced a jig. Chief trotted happily into the house with him, and was a great 'help' as Perry washed up in the downstairs powder room and opened the couch into a bed, keeping up a constant conversation in increasingly incredible variations of '_meow'._

When the cat curled into his armpit again, purring louder than a drum corps, Perry finally settled down. "Chief, old buddy, old pal, you are just what the doctor ordered."

Chief trilled deep in his throat and twisted his malleable feline body so that he was almost on his back, staring up at the newest object of his affection, listening to an outpouring of profoundly impassioned past memories, current insecurities, and dreams of a happier future.


	19. Chapter 19

_Note: And the preliminary hearing begins! You will see subtle differences that I believe make a huge difference in the plot, because there just wasn't away I could relegate the hearing to descriptive asides or reduce it to a few paragraphs. I hope there is enough new material to keep the next two chapters from dragging for you readers._

_My undying and heartfelt thanks to StartWriting for her knowledge and wisdom and creative talent. _

TCOT Absurd Assumption C19

Perry drove to court Monday by himself, leaving the house twenty minutes before everyone else because he claimed he needed to stop by the office to pick up something. He didn't, and Della knew he didn't, and tried not to show any anxiety over his avoidance of being alone with her. He had been distant and distracted off and on over the weekend, which hadn't stopped him from flexing his freedom in regard to the disposed of Article III and kissing her goodnight, but something was definitely off-kilter, and she wondered what it was he was hiding from her. It would be simple to attribute his standoffishness on Paul being a.w.o.l., on her tears, on a house full of people quick to judge and blame, and on a looming return to the courtroom after an eight year absence. Gosh, what indeed was there to be distracted about?

But nothing about life currently was simple, and the Streets and the Masons were hiding their emotions from Della as well, emotions that revolved primarily around the competence of her attorney. Perry was a legend in his field, but they had never seen him in action, and would be lying if they didn't have nagging thoughts about his proficiency as an attorney after eight years wearing the robes of a judge. He was their younger brother and illegitimate brother-in-law, and the fate of someone else they loved dearly rested solely in his hands. They hoped he was more than just a glimmer of what he once professed to be, because they pretty much knew him only at his worst.

Della, as usual, appeared to be calm and unconcerned. The fact that her sister-in-law had complete trust in Perry despite his own intermittent battles with confidence quelled some of the queasiness Henny felt and she tried to convey that to Val, who looked gravely ill but insisted she was fine. Valerie's quiet strength won out over her husband's loud insistence that she stay at the house and rest instead of attending the hearing, steadily going about packing two inhalers and plenty of hankies and telling her husband he was mistaken if he thought he was going to keep her out of the courtroom to support the closest thing to a sister she had.

An undisturbed glassy surface hid profound turmoil in Della's house, and she wished everyone would treat her normally, not as someone with an unspeakable illness. Val more than anyone should have appreciated that and been her outspoken self, but mostly she regarded her brother-in-law's former secretary with worried eyes and remained silent.

And then there was the enormous chasm that was the absence of Perry, when Della needed his lopsidedly dimpled grin more than ever, needed his reassuring swagger and familiarity to reinforce her own strength at facing what the People of the State of California were about to throw at her. The ride to the Courtroom was the blurriest event of the last few days, tucked between Henny and Val in the back seat, conversation hushed and funereal. Della wanted to cry at the mute apprehension permeating the interior of the automobile, but once her feet hit the concrete steps of the Criminal Courts Building, she forgot who had driven her and why, and tried to steady herself for what lay in wait for her behind those glass doors.

Court was scheduled to convene at nine a.m., but due to the interest in Della's case, a crowd had begun gathering at seven-thirty. Court Officers stood sentinel at the main doors to control the crowd in the event it became unruly, and Henny fretted that they might not find seats in the courtroom.

Della was overwhelmed by the crowd, a great portion of whom she recognized. She assured Henny that there would be plenty of seats in the spectator gallery, as it appeared the crowd waited for her to arrive before entering the building. She wondered briefly if Perry had arrived yet, if he had slayed the dragon pursuing him so he could adequately defend her. Being steadfast, faithful, and loyal was her stock in trade as a legal secretary, but she could see how Perry's little pre-trial quirks could test a defendant.

It didn't help she knew that Perry was mad, seething inside, on the verge of exploding at Paul. Della sensed exactly what his state of mind was in regard to their private investigator and didn't mention the boy, but had been unable to hide the fact that she snuck calls to Paul's apartment all day Sunday. Perry caught her guiltily emerging from the den a couple of times but chose to ignore what she was doing for the sake of civility, and later wordlessly handed her the earring she had removed and left on the desk. She was on the verge of reluctantly admitting he should have hired a seasoned professional – perhaps an operative from the firm Johnson and Inskip had formed after Paul Sr.'s death. Damn the kid's irresponsible Lone Ranger attitude.

Years ago Perry would probably have gone to Acton himself, very possibly with her beside him, and they would have dug up the information themselves while Paul Sr. worked other angles. Della admitted she felt left out from the preparation of her case, and that was because Perry had deliberately limited her contributions to protect her, for not only were the people involved in the case proving dangerous, the murderer was undoubtedly someone she had interacted with on a daily basis, someone she might care for, and that would be a severe blow to her.

She took a deep breath and headed into the crowd. Maybe Perry was already inside, waiting for her.

But she knew better. He was behind her, in the on deck circle as it were, the distance between them not just metaphorical this time.

* * *

><p>Extra security had been assigned to the courthouse for Della's preliminary hearing, and people mingled everywhere indoors and out, some who knew Della personally (Perry recognized former clients, friends, acquaintances, and a celebrity or two in the milling throng) and wanted to wish her well; some there for the thrill of participating however minutely in such a high-profile proceeding. Once inside the courtroom, having run the gauntlet of reporters and well-wishers without making a quotable comment, Perry heaved a sigh of relief.<p>

The perspective of a judge, sitting on the raised bench, had never felt completely comfortable to Perry Mason. Being in the trenches as it were felt more natural and as he made his way to the Defense table, passing every person he suspected capable of hiring a man to kill another man, his step quickened and became more purposeful, especially when he saw Della seated not in the third chair at the table, but in the middle chair.

The Defendant's chair.

She had sat in the Defendant's chair once before*, a long time ago, accused as an accessory, Hamilton Burger publicly admitting it to be the only way to punish him for methods the DA considered '_unorthodox', 'spectacular', 'dramatic', 'bizarre', 'legal hocus-pocus'_, and most amusingly _'swashbuckling'_. The belligerent, barrel-chested DA then admitted it bothered him that Perry's methods were also _'effective', _but it wasn't so much what Perry did to win cases as it was _**how he did it **_that pissed him off enough to pursue charges against the attorney's most valued employee and threaten disbarment once his secretary was convicted. Which he had been unable to do. And that pissed him off even more.

Perry treated the entire incident as a nuisance, referring to it as a '_damn silly case',_ and cautioned Della not to talk to their relatives until it was over. Unworried about a positive outcome for his secretary, he had astoundingly asked for an immediate jury trial and waived examination and all challenges for the first twelve prospective jurors, playing a psychological trick on Hamilton Burger. He knew in doing so it would set the proceeding off on a wrong foot with the bombastic DA, who would not recognize the ploy for what it was and would expend copious amounts of hot air examining a greater number of prospective jurors than necessary. And it had worked out exactly as Perry surmised, to the detriment of Hamilton Burger's reputation. No officious DA was going to act like a petulant schoolyard bully with him. How he won his cases might irk both the police and the Prosecution, but that in and of itself didn't warrant their despicable behavior toward Della. He wasn't going to let either get away with it, and sitting a jury would only add to the gravitas of the thrashing he would deliver to the two arms of law enforcement misguided enough to provoke him in such a crass manner.

For her part, Della had been beautiful and stalwart, succumbing to nervousness only once during a soft, fuzzy moment on the dance floor of their favorite night club while waiting for the jury to return a verdict, which Perry bet her five dollars would come after only three hours of deliberation. He had made sure they participated in a whirlwind of activity in the days leading up to the trial, either in public or behind closed doors since her arraignment – they hadn't made love so much since the very first week they became lovers and were both pleasantly exhausted – and once she was acquitted after three hours and ten minutes of jury deliberation, whisked her off to a desert inn ostensibly to work uninterrupted on an important brief, but in reality to continue what Della termed their 'relentlessly debouched assignations' away from any reminder of the trial.

Then as now she was indescribably lovely and innocent, a victim of circumstantial evidence an unimaginative police force and an overreaching Prosecutor interpreted from absurdly wrong angles, ignoring glaring discrepancies and making sweeping assumptions all for the dubious distinction of besting the legend that was Perry Mason. He wasn't being arrogant or egotistical – it was just the way it was.

He should have made another bet with Della before leaving the house.

He should have done a lot of things before leaving the house.

They rarely spoke of that long-ago trial, and had not mentioned it since her arrest for the murder of Arthur Gordon, and when she was acquitted again, they would speak rarely of this trial. That was how they had always dealt with difficulties in their life together – Della's evolved version of running away from what hurt her.

There was much more at stake in this trial for a capital crime carrying a life sentence compared to charges of spiriting a witness for which she most likely would have received a suspended sentence had there been any chance of conviction. Disbarment was threatened but unlikely, and in the event Hamilton Burger's charges resulted in him being disbarred, he would have found another career. Maybe become a detective. Paul Drake would have _**hated**_ that.

Knowing that, Perry may still have pursued the life of a PI. Not to upset his friend, but as a way of finding another path toward adventure. If he could make the stodgy practice of law exciting, just think what he could have done for the profession of private investigator.

But when all was said and done, and as much as he would have liked being a detective, he would have missed being an attorney, being the one who called the shots, being the one to complete the puzzle first. The last eight years had shown that to be painfully true.

What was at stake now in this trial was the rest of his life. Eight years ago he had made a promise out of grief without thinking, and although he'd accused Della of being harsh and unyielding in regard to that promise, he had indeed made promises to her first, promises that were much more important than a friend's governmental appointment. Although to Harvey, that appointment was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Poor, unhappy Harvey.

How in hell had he allowed himself to be unhappy after watching Harvey be unhappy his entire life? What earthly point had there been to serving out his dead friend's time on the Appeals Court?

The latter point involved philosophical subjects Perry wasn't prepared to deal with, then or now. Especially now, when still breathtakingly beautiful, still steadily stalwart Della was seated in the Defendant's chair, counting on him to do what he did best, and he _**was**_ _**not **_going to let her down. Never, ever again.

The walk to the Defense table had taken a lifetime, but finally Perry made it. Della looked up at him with a smile as he settled in his seat next to her. Chairs were so much more comfortable now than they were years ago. He didn't know how Della had endured sitting in those straight-backed wooden chairs for hours on end. At least he had been able to stand and walk around. "Heard anything from Paul yet?" _Geez, Mason, way to be solicitous of your client's uneasiness..._

"No. Worried?" If he turned her question around and asked her if she was worried, she didn't know if she could put forth a convincing denial. The one thing that genuinely worried her was Paul's whereabouts. With a gun.

Perry didn't look at her. He didn't have to. "Not at all." She was worried. She wouldn't admit it, but she was. Not for herself, but for the boy, which was the essence of Della Street. He finally gave her a sideways glance, seeing the notebook open in front of her and several sharpened pencils lined up next to it. His eyebrows bobbed up and down quickly. "You're taking notes?"

"It's part of my job…isn't it?" What had he expected her to do? Sit docilely beside him looking tragic?

_I love you. I love you, Della Street, and when this is over, when hearing it won't break you or me, I will tell you. _His features and voice softened. "Whyyy…I suppose it is."

Barbara Scott walked up to the Defense table dressed in a long pleated skirt and boxy blazer that engulfed her. Twiddling eyeglasses in one hand against her voluminous skirt, she mustered a firm, "Good morning, Counselor."

Perry blasted the Prosecutor with a dimpled grin and a jovial, "Yes, it is."

Barbara Scott dealt beautifully with the reply as well as the unexpectedly boyish grin. She lingered for a couple of mildly awkward seconds, with what she hoped was a confident smile before taking the few steps to her place at the Prosecutor's table. She hadn't expected anything like that grin. There was no resolution to this case yet, but any mystery surrounding why Della Street had hung around Perry Mason for thirty years had been solved for her.

The bailiff appeared and bade all to rise, calling court into session with the Honorable Norman Whitewood presiding, once a criminal attorney of generally good repute himself.

Della rose steadily enough, but when she blew out an audibly shaky breath, Perry circled her with his arm, drawing her trembling slenderness to his side. He would protect her. He would fight for her. He would be her hero again, a man she could admire again.

A man she could love again.

Della leaned into Perry, taking enough strength from him to top off her tank. Her shaking knees steadied, her mind cleared, her vision slowly focused. The only thing that didn't calm down was her palpitating heart.

Behind them, Bart smiled with satisfaction and clasped his wife's hand as court artists frantically sketched the scene at the Defense table.

And so began the preliminary hearing of Miss Della Street.

* * *

><p>The Prosecution's first witness was Lt. Cooper, who detailed the discovery of Arthur Gordon's body by his housekeeper Mrs. Mary Jeffries, of finding the letter opener lying beside the body, wiped clean of fingerprints, as well as an earring clutched in the man's hand, and that Mrs. Jeffries had seen a woman run out of the house just before finding Mr. Gordon dead on the floor in his office. That led to information that Mr. Gordon's Executive Assistant Miss Della Street had the code to the security gate, and she was summoned to the Gordon Estate immediately.<p>

Miss Street identified the earring clutched in Arthur Gordon's hand as belonging to her, Lt. Cooper testified, as well as a swatch of fabric found clinging to a thorny bush above a footprint made by a high-heeled shoe as resembling the pattern of a dress she owned. The investigation shifted to her house with her permission at that time. The bloodied dress was found in a trash can, and shoes muddied with soil consistent with that found on the Gordon Estate grounds were hidden at the back of a closet. Because Miss Street could not provide an alibi for her whereabouts the previous night, she was arrested for the murder of Arthur Gordon.

With just one witness, Barbara Scott introduced every bit of physical evidence in her 'dead bang winner' of a case accompanied by increasing murmurs from the spectators.

Perry quietly declined questioning of the witness at that time, and had no objections to entering crime scene photos as People's Exhibit A, the letter opener as Exhibit B, the earring as Exhibit C, and the dress and muddy shoes as Exhibits D and E respectively with the court clerk.

Barbara Scott's next witness was Dr. Joseph Henderson, the County Medical Examiner, who established when and how Arthur Gordon died, confirming that his death was definitely murder, describing a terrible wound caused by penetration of a sharp instrument through the solar plexus and upward into the victim's heart. Pictures of the wound at autopsy were entered into evidence – pictures Perry had not allowed Della to see previously and did not ask to view before being logged as exhits.

Barbara Scott then showed the ME a letter opener, asking him if he had ever seen it before and if in his opinion it was the murder weapon. Perry agreed to stipulate the implement was indeed the murder weapon and reiterated that no fingerprints were found on it. It was so stipulated. Barbara Scott picked up the torn, bloodied dress with a flourish and showed it to the ME.

"Dr. Henderson, have you ever seen this dress?"

"Yes. I examined the bloodstains on it."

"And what did your examination of the blood stains tell you?"

"That they are type O, the same as the deceased's."

Barbara Scott walked briskly back to the Prosecutor's table. "Your witness, Mr. Mason."

"Dr. Henderson," Perry's 'courtroom' voice sounded for the first time in eight years, vibrating against every wood-paneled wall, his earlier quietness a deliberate build-up to this moment. "How long have you been a Medical Examiner?"

Della nearly swooned as a shiver ran through her. That voice. That marvelous, mesmerizing voice. Perry was in his element again, and it was thrilling. It didn't matter that his questions were mundanely establishing the ME's status as an expert witness, something which Barbara Scott did not do, Della felt as giddy as the first time she'd attended court with Perry thirty years ago. The shiver, as well as her quickly beating heart felt wrong and out of place, but so good that it could not be wrong.

"And how much force would be necessary to inflict this type of wound?"

"It would take considerable force to inflict such a wound because of the tough muscles surrounding the heart and protective placement of the rib cage."

Perry paused for a second, letting the doctor's words register with the judge. "With that in mind, would it be fair to say the force necessary would be _**more**_ than considerable? In your opinion, Doctor, would a woman be able to inflict such a wound?"

"Objection," Barbara Scott interposed. "Mr. Mason himself provided my grounds."

"Why don't you go ahead and clarify those grounds for the Court, Miss Scott," Judge Whitewood directed.

"Your Honor, I've just established Dr. Henderson's status as an expert witness with exposure to in excess of two hundred similar fatal wounds," Perry interjected before Barbara Scott could reply. "I believe his opinion as to whether a woman could inflict such a wound would be considered expert testimony."

"Unlikely," Dr. Henderson answered Perry Mason's original question, "but not impossible."

"Your Honor!" Barbara Scott jumped to her feet.

Judge Whitewood motioned her back. "Dr. Henderson, I have not yet ruled on Miss Scott's objection. But since I was inclined to overrule initially, I will do so now. The answer stands."

Barbara Scott accepted the ruling with a small frown and an exchanged glance with her associate.

Perry's expression was unreadable, contours of a granite-hard mask presented for effect. If she wasn't the Defendant, Della would have smiled widely at the memories evoked by that inscrutable expression. Instead, she kept her smile hidden, contented and confident.

"Dr. Henderson, you testified that the deceased's blood type was O. Did you ever ascertain the Defendant's blood type?"

The ME shifted from hip to hip in the witness chair. "No, I did not."

Perry stood in the middle of the courtroom; feet planted apart, arms crossed over his chest. "Dr. Henderson, the Defendant's blood type is O."

Barbara Scott jumped to her feet again. "Your Honor, Mr. Mason pointed out he just established this witness as an expert and then impugned him."

Judge Whitewood stared at the young Prosecutor. "Miss Scott, this is your witness. Did you intend for him to testify as an expert?"

"Y-yes. I thought my intent was clear."

"Did _**you**_ ascertain the Defendant's blood type?"

Barbara Scott sat down. "N-no, I did not."

"You opened the door by introducing the deceased's blood type and connecting Exhibit D to the Defendant. I trust Mr. Mason can verify his client's blood type?

"I have a report from Cedars Sinai Hematology lab so stating." And Della had a bruise on the inside of her left elbow because as the male laboratory technician complained, her veins ran deep and quiet, and Perry thought if that young man only knew…

"Prosecution will stipulate as to the Defendant's blood type," Barbara Scott said, chagrinned and sullen.

Judge Whitewood tapped his pencil on the desk blotter. "Call your next witness, Miss Scott."

"Call Mrs. Mary Jeffries to the stand." Barbara Scott wasn't happy, and not just with the failure of her first objection. She needed to keep her emotions and temper under better control. This _**was**_ a dead-bang case as far as she was concerned. All she had to do was systematically present all the evidence so the judge would see he had no choice but to find probable cause to bind Della Street over for trial. The blood type similarity was a minor bump in the case she could easily overcome. Perry Mason wasn't infallible, he could be defeated, and she was the Prosecutor who could prove that despite this insignificant blunder.

Mrs. Jeffries made a precise, articulate witness. After being buzzed by the intercom in Mr. Gordon's office, she had put on her robe and begun descending the stairs, calling out to Mr. Gordon, when she saw a woman in a flower-print dress run across the foyer and out the front door. She couldn't identify the woman definitely because she only saw her from the back, but was certain about the details of her appearance. Barbara Scott showed the bloodied and torn flower-print dress to Mrs. Jeffries, who identified it as the one worn by the woman running out of the Gordon mansion, as well as worn by Della Street on two different visits to her adjunct estate office. Barbara Scott, very pleased with herself, handed the witness over for cross-examination. Witnesses like Mrs. Jeffries could literally win a case, and she was confident the woman would hold up admirably under Perry Mason's questions.

"Mrs. Jeffries, what were you doing when the intercom in your room buzzed?" Perry asked without standing.

"I was sleeping."

Perry leaned forward on his elbows, a pose adopted to radiate he was not concerned by the testimony of a Prosecution witness. "Do you wear glasses?"

"I do not. My vision is perfect. My last eye appointment was only two months ago and the doctor said as much."

"Your vision is 20/20?"

"If that is perfect, then yes."

"So when your eyes were last examined, the doctor described your vision as 20/20?"

"He described it as _**perfect,**_" the witness corrected.

Perry was thoughtful for a moment, still leaning on his elbows. "How dark was the foyer the evening of Arthur Gordon's murder?"

"Not so dark that I couldn't see a woman in _**that**_ dress running away."

Just then a woman in the gallery, gasped "Oh no!" leapt out of her seat and ran from the courtroom sobbing. Perry Mason stood at that moment, watching the woman exit through the doors as the gallery crowd reacted to what had just happened.

"Oh my goodness," Henny gasped to her husband. "I haven't been able to take my eyes off of Perry. What just happened?"

Carter leaned toward his wife but before he could say anything, Perry turned abruptly to the witness seated on the stand.

"Mrs. Jeffries, did you get a good look at the woman who just ran out of the courtroom?"

Della was as surprised as everyone else by the interruption of proceedings, but following Perry's quick question to Mrs. Jeffries suspected he was playing that full house against Barbara Scott's pair of deuces early in the game. And it was just like him not to tell her anything about what he was doing. The element of surprise. No wonder he wanted to drive to court alone this morning. He wasn't distracted by her tears, by the missing Paul Drake, by a house full of relatives judging and blaming him.

He was enjoying himself. He was thrilled to the bone to be in a courtroom again as an attorney.

"Just from the back," Mrs. Jeffries admitted.

"Could you describe the woman?"

Mrs. Jeffries sat stiff and straight in the witness chair. "She was tall and slender, wore a blue flower-print dress, had long brown hair, and was carrying a beige handbag with a shoulder strap." She relaxed her shoulders a bit, confident in her observation.

Perry Mason motioned to the Court Officer. "Mr. Jones, please ask the woman to come back in."

The officer opened the door and the woman in the blue dress re-entered the courtroom. Perry held open the gallery gate so that the woman could stand next to him. She was possibly five-feet seven inches tall in heels, slender, and yet his powerful physique dwarfed her.

While everyone around her looked disoriented, Della sat back and smiled indulgently at her bad boy attorney, knowing he had pulled a fast one on the entire courtroom. She had heard Henny's remark through the babble, and knew it was precisely what Perry had been banking on with the rest of the spectators.

"I must congratulate you, Mrs. Jeffries," Perry said with a Cheshire Cat smile. "The description you gave was completely accurate. However, you missed one significant detail. This…" he reached up and pulled a long brown wig off the head of the person standing next to him, "is not a woman."

Judge Whitewood pounded his gavel as the gallery crowd exploded in excited chatter once again at seeing the man's haircut and masculine features covered with pancake make-up and a generous application of rouge. "Order!"

"This _**gentleman**_," Perry raised his voice to be heard above the hubbub behind him, "is a stuntman who has doubled for some of the top female television and motion picture actresses in Hollywood during a successful ten-year career."

Barbara Scott was rooted to her seat, furious that Perry Mason had pulled one of his famous stunts only three witnesses into her case. She strove to sound bored and unimpressed. "Your Honor, the days of theatrics such as this are long since gone. I object to Mr. Mason's stunt on the grounds of relevance."

Judge Whitewood waved both Counsel to the bench and dismissed Mrs. Jeffries from the stand. Perry swallowed a gleeful grin and bowed deferentially to Barbara Scott, allowing her to precede him to the bench.

"Your Honor," Barbara Scott started right in, jaw tight with anger. "Mr. Mason is obviously trying to compensate for his lack of any credible defense by turning this courtroom into a sideshow. In the past he may have gotten away with it, but I –"

"I'm attempting to demonstrate the plausibility that someone other than the Defendant killed Arthur Gordon," Perry interrupted, "in this case a man."

"A man!" Barbara Scott exploded in disbelief, more loudly than she should have. "I still object to this kind of disruptive behavior as irrelevant and immaterial regardless of what Counsel is attempting to establish. He'll have an opportunity to present a Defense after the People have rested their case."

Perry stepped closer to the bench and Judge Whitewood. "Your Honor…" it was difficult not to call the judge 'Norm', and he suspected Norm was having difficulty not calling him by his first name, this being the first time the two contemporaries had met in court. "My client is accused of murder." Judges called it the 'no shit, Counselor' approach, and Perry detected a momentary twinkle in Norman Whitewood's eyes. "Your Honor, I'm asking the Court for the widest possible latitude to introduce this possibility."

Judge Whitewood, so far underwhelmed with the Prosecution's case, and interest piqued, looked from Perry Mason's calmly sincere eyes to the enraged eyes of Barbara Scott and made his decision. Demonstrating an alternate scenario in such a disruptive fashion was a brilliant strategy, one which he had employed as an attorney on occasion himself, although admittedly not as effectively as Perry Mason just had. "I concur, Counselor, so I'm overruling Miss Scott's objection. But, I am cautioning you to keep your performance art within the bounds of acceptable court procedures from here on out. Do you understand, Mr. Mason?"

Perry nodded contritely. "I understand. Thank you, Your Honor."

"But – but it isn't acceptable court procedure to interrupt the People's case!" Barbara Scott sputtered. "I've only called three witnesses –"

"And the rest of your witnesses will testify," Judge Whitewood told her firmly. "At the moment the Court is interested in exploring Mr. Mason's line of reasoning."

"I assure you, Miss Scott," Perry said, deference now barely rising above unctuous, "that you will be given every opportunity to cross-examine any witness I call, and that most of those witnesses are on your witness list as well. In fact, I will promise not to object to any questions you ask regardless of groundwork laid."

"If _**I**_ agree to this highly irregular detour from acceptable court procedures," Barbara Scott said acidly, "will I be given rights of _voir dire_ questioning of witnesses unfamiliar to the Prosecution as well as recall for cross-examination?"

"By all means."

"Then I agree."

Judge Whitewood tapped his pencil irritably. "I'm delighted you agree with the Court's ruling, Miss Scott. You may proceed, Mr. Mason."

"I appreciate the Court's indulgence, Your Honor."

Chastened and red-faced, Barbara Scott returned with leaden feet to the Prosecutor's table while Perry could have skipped back to the Defense table. He took his seat and leaned toward Della, who placed her elbow on the arm of her chair, chin in hand, bracing for the news.

"Judge Whitewood is allowing me to introduce the concept of Bobby Lynch," Perry whispered, each word wrapped in elation.

Della's elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and the palm of her hand smacked against her cheek. She had no doubt he would get his theory heard, but had no idea it would be like this, just three witnesses into the hearing, in a strange twist of procedure. She shook her head, marveling at the big break they had been given, spirits higher than the clouds.

"Where the hell is Paul?" Perry groused.

Indeed, Della thought worriedly, quickly coming down to earth, where the hell is Paul?"

*_Refer to the novel_ _**TCOT Careless Kitten**_


	20. Chapter 20

TCOT Absurd Assumption C20

Perry's first witness was Jennifer Fisher, the dress shop sales clerk, whom he showed a picture of Bobby Lynch, and whom she positively identified as a man who had purchased a dress identical to People's Exhibit D. It was an expensive dress, and not many had been sold, and the fact that a coarse, unsophisticated man with very specific details about a three-hundred dollar dress he wanted to buy had stayed with her for months. Perry thanked Miss Fisher and headed back to the Defense table.

Barbara Scott stood. "Miss Fisher, is there anyone else in this courtroom you recall having purchased that dress?"

Della, notebook and pencil momentarily forgotten, felt her face grow hot, bracing for the girl's answer. How unreasonably silly was it in the scheme of things that she could be so embarrassed by a dress? The reason of course, from long ago, was that she had vowed Perry would never be judged or embarrassed by the clothing she wore, and to the detriment of her bank account had developed an impeccable fashion sense. This unfortunate dress was a complete embarrassment, from the floral fabric to the droopy waist to the grandmotherly macramé details. She had been embarrassed handing over her charge card to the sales girl when she bought it, had been embarrassed every time she wore it, and was mortified now that it was on display for all to see her serious lapse in judgment.

A hideous thought came to her, far more disturbing than the embarrassment she felt over the dress. What if Bobby Lynch had seen her wear the dress, had watched her to see how she walked, how she held her head, how she wore her hair? There had only been two men who paid such attention to her clothing and carriage – one who liked the dress and how she looked in it, the other who despised the dress and if circumstances were different would joke about liking her better out of the dress than in it. She felt oddly violated.

Jennifer bobbed her head toward the Defense table and pointed at Della. "Yes – that woman there. She was the first one to buy the dress when it came in. I remember her because…"

Perry, without looking up from studying whatever paperwork was in front of him, unerringly reached out and grasped Della's left hand, his long, strong fingers squeezing hers with understanding and reassurance. Della couldn't look either, because if she did she might cry.

"Let the record show the witness identified the Defendant as having purchased the dress," Barbara Scott nearly crowed, interrupting the witness.

Della would have wondered why the Prosecutor was so pleased with her question and the sales clerk's answer had Perry not for the second time that morning publically demonstrated his support and affection for her. Only one other time had he been so demonstrative toward her in court. The resultant gossip and publicity had perversely overshadowed the trial, and she had made him promise not to do anything like it again in open court.

However, she didn't mind in the least he had broken that particular promise this morning.

Perry called Rodney Williams, a parole officer who had been assigned the case of one Robert Lynch upon his release from prison six months earlier. Lynch had been paroled from an involuntary manslaughter plea bargain after two years for knifing a man in a bar, and met with Mr. Williams on a weekly basis. Perry's intent with the witness was to establish that Bobby Lynch had been incarcerated for stabbing a man and was shot and killed, but Barbara Scott was having none of it.

"Objection on the grounds of relevancy."

Perry suspected he would be hearing a lot of that phrase despite the Judge's prior ruling if he couldn't quickly figure out who had hired Bobby Lynch.

"It's my contention that Robert Lynch was hired to kill Arthur Gordon and was in turn murdered by the person who hired him in order to guarantee his silence. I have asked for and received latitude to present this contention." There. His cards were on the table now, with only one still face down. If Paul didn't show up soon, he would have egg on his face when that card turned out to be a joker.

"The Court did rule earlier that it is willing to grant wide latitude, but when will Defense substantiate the relevance of Robert Lynch and his criminal history, or for that matter, of his purchasing a dress? I've purchased a dress or two in my lifetime, and I suspect you have as well, Counselor." Try as he might, Norman Whitewood could not refrain from glancing at the Defendant. He hadn't known Perry Mason well during his tenure as an attorney, but had heard plenty of stories about him and the lovely Miss Street. Harmless gossip among colleagues, no first-hand knowledge that would require recusal from the case.

Barbara Scott sat down with a satisfied smirk on her face. His Honor had very nicely paved the way for introducing Della Street's interesting personal life. Okay, she would just let the great Perry Mason hang himself with all this latitude.

"Your Honor, I have at minimum two and at maximum six additional witnesses to call –"

"While I appreciate that information, Mr. Mason, you still haven't told the Court when you plan to substantiate all of this."

The courtroom doors opened noisily and a breathless Paul Drake burst into the courtroom. He sought Perry Mason's eyes and nodded. A slow satisfied smile spread across the young investigator's face.

Perry could have vaulted the gallery gate and grabbed the boy in a bear hug. "We intend to do that right now. Your Honor, if I may briefly consult with my associate?"

Paul hurried to the Defense table, unzipped his pouch, and pulled out several documents, which he showed to Perry. After thirty seconds of excited whispering, Perry nodded his head once and suddenly spun to face the bench. "I call Mrs. Paula Gordon to the stand."

Paula, who was seated directly behind Della two rows back, where she could see her husband's Executive Assistant but Della couldn't see her without deliberately turning around, looked surprised and disgusted. She had been subpoenaed to testify on behalf of the Prosecution, which she was more than willing to do. Being called as a Defense witness did not please her one little bit. She walked toward the stand with a deliberately slow pace.

"Mrs. Gordon, you are currently and have been for several years, Director of the Gordon Foundation?" Perry was looking down as he asked the question, further studying the information supplied by Paul Drake, who had taken the third seat at the Defense table and was leaning protectively toward Della.

"That's correct." Her answer was belligerent and loud, letting everyone know how offended she was to be called as a witness by the attorney for the woman who had murdered her husband, as if they hadn't surmised that from the elaborate eye-rolling during her swearing-in.

"And as Director you personally approve all grants and projects the Foundation endows?"

"Yes."

Perry finally looked up. "Mrs. Gordon, are you familiar with a solar power project located near Acton?"

Paula crossed and uncrossed her legs, smoothed down her hair, lifted defiant eyes. "Yes." The affirmation was unconvincing despite her posture.

"Have you inspected the facility?"

Paula Gordon cleared her throat. "No, I have not."

"But you signed endowment checks for that project, did you not?"

"Yes." It was probably the truth, she decided, otherwise Perry Mason wouldn't have phrased the question that way.

"That's all, Mrs. Gordon."

Her brow knit in a frown, all defiance gone from her expression. "But I don't understand…"

"That's _**all**_, Mrs. Gordon."

Paula Gordon stared at Perry Mason, perplexed. Barbara Scott, refusing to look at the witness, repeated her spiel about reserving the right to recall Mrs. Gordon for cross-examination at a later time. Paula Gordon then descended the stand with less injured dignity than she had ascended, face contorted with anger and disappointment.

Barbara Scott felt she probably should have thrown out another relevancy objection for appearances sake, but after conferring with her associate, decided that objecting to every witness during this highly irregular deviation from proper court procedure surely would not endear the Prosecution to Judge Whitewood, and might very well result in being regarded as the DA who cried wolf. Paula Gordon would have her time to testify against Della Street. And Barbara Scott would leverage the latitude granted Perry Mason to have Mrs. Gordon considered a hostile witness to give credence to all of her prejudicial personal biases.

Katherine Gordon was surprised to be called as the next witness for the Defense, but she nonetheless very much enjoyed her walk to the witness stand after hearing her named announced, and took several seconds to arrange her posture and hair to best advantage before facing Perry Mason with an engaging smile. He certainly was a commanding figure in a courtroom. She was neutral in her feelings for Della Street, not having gotten to know her father's Executive Assistant particularly well over the years as Laura and David had. Why would she? What could a woman do for her? But Perry Mason was another story altogether. Her thoughts about him were decidedly not neutral.

"Miss Gordon, do you own a gun?"

"Yes. A thirty-two caliber revolver with a pearl handle."

"A pearl handle?"

Katherine dipped one shoulder and gave Perry Mason what could only be called a coquettish smile. "The gun was a gift from my father as sort of a joke. He thought I had expensive tastes." She laughed again, eyes dancing, enjoying the spotlight immensely. "He was right."

"Where do you keep the revolver?"

"At my home."

"Is it there now?"

"Yes."

Barbara Scott rattled some papers in annoyance. "I must object to this line of questioning as totally irrelevant and immaterial. The victim in this case was stabbed, he was not shot."

"But Bobby Lynch was shot," Perry Mason reminded the Court, "and it's he we are concerned with at the moment. I only have one more question for this witness, Your Honor."

"Objection overruled."

"How can we be sure the gun is still at your home, Miss Gordon?"

"It's in a drawer in my night stand. I saw it this morning before I left to come here."

Barbara Scott gave a rote speech about reserving her right to blah, blah, blah. This hearing was a travesty, a sanctioned vehicle for Perry Mason's grandstanding, and Jack Welles was going to get an earful about the old defense lawyer's fraternity on display. Misconduct charges had better be filed against Judge Norman Whitewood by her boss or she would pursue discrimination charges from the judge on down to the bailiff on her own. She settled back in her chair, hands clasped across her stomach, placing bets with herself who the Defense would call as a witness next. She lost her own bet badly as Ken Braddock was called to the stand.

Perry approached the witness stand and leaned his hands on the rail. "Mr. Braddock, you were Arthur Gordon's personal attorney as well as attorney for the Gordon Foundation, were you not?"

"Yes." The lawyer sat in the witness chair, an authoritative, urbane air about him.

"And as attorney for the Gordon Foundation, naturally you are familiar with a solar project in Acton?"

"Yes, of course. I drew up all the documents regarding the project for Mrs. Gordon."

"Who received funding for the construction of that project, Mr. Braddock?"

"That's rather difficult to answer, Mr. Mason. I have an attorney/client relationship with Mrs. Gordon as well as with the Foundation. That information is privileged." He spoke as if to a law school freshman on his first day of classes.

Perry responded in kind. "But your activities aren't privileged, Counselor, and you are under oath."

"I don't need you to explain that to me, Mr. Mason," he said with smarmy condescension, what Della had called his 'oiliness' on public display.

Perry lifted one corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. "Mr. Braddock, are you aware there is no solar project in existence?"

Ken Braddock appeared nonplussed, and took a deliberate length of time to answer. "No, I wasn't aware of that."

"Isn't it true you invented that project and diverted the funds to yourself, Mr. Braddock?"

An even longer pause for effect, apparently stunned by Perry Mason's accusation. Finally he shook his head. "No, it is not true."

"Isn't it true you pushed this non-existent solar project past Mrs. Gordon and diverted funds you requisitioned because you needed money to support your mistress, Katherine Gordon?" Perry strode away from the witness stand, his back to Ken Braddock, eyes locked on the man's mistress seated in the spectator gallery. He had made no promises. He merely agreed with Ken that he could understand.

Another long pause. Why hadn't Perry Mason stayed in San Francisco where he belonged? He was nothing but an over-rated has-been who had no business conducting a defense. "That's ridiculous. Absolutely not."

Perry spun to face the witness once more, levelling steely eyes at the man. "Would you like to reconsider your testimony?"

"No." Ken Braddock remained calm and collected on the witness stand, confidently denying everything Perry Mason threw at him.

Perry twisted the upper portion of his body, caught Della's wide, startled eyes and smiled. She saw where he was headed with Ken Braddock and was stunned. Then he winked at Paul Drake and picked up a piece of paper from the pile on the table. "In that case, Mr. Braddock," he began heavily, "would you like me to read the sworn statement of one Frank Lynch, father of Robert Lynch, describing how you not only used him to divert Foundation funds to you, but paid him hush money to protect your fraud? A sworn statement that also describes how you hired his son to kill Arthur Gordon and frame Della Street for the murder? Would you like me to read it, Mr. Braddock?"

Ken Braddock, so cocky and sure of himself up until then, began to wilt on the stand. His forehead shone with perspiration and his breathing became labored.

"Arthur Gordon was going to remove his incompetent wife as Director of the Foundation and appoint Della Street to the position. Isn't it true that if Della Street took over the Directorship of the Foundation she would have quickly discovered your embezzlement and you had to get her and Arthur Gordon out the way before that happened? Isn't it true you killed Bobby Lynch with Katherine Gordon's gun and then used her as an alibi for your whereabouts that day?"

He advanced toward the witness stand and a cowering Ken Braddock, eyes blazing and unblinking. He hoped the instinctual hatred he felt for the attorney wouldn't show in his voice or his posture. How dare this man hurt Della. "Isn't it true that murder was going to be the solution to all your problems? You'd have the money, the girl, and no one would ever know." He stopped a foot from where Ken Braddock sat, shoulders folding, head lowered. "Isn't it true, Mr. Braddock?"

Ken Braddock raised his head and looked pleadingly toward the gallery. "I'm sorry, Kate," he said brokenly after several seconds.

There was complete silence in the courtroom.

"Mr. Braddock!" Perry barked, relentless in his pursuit, turning the long pause contrivance around on the witness. "Isn't it all true?"

Ken Braddock, once a respected, successful man now had nothing. Everything was gone, taken from him by a lawyer past his prime who should have one foot in retirement. Never in a thousand years would he have thought Perry Mason could abdicate his seat on the Court of Appeals or he wouldn't have gone through with his plan. He took a deep breath. "Yes."

The spectators exploded into excited chatter behind him, Bart's voice the loudest and deepest as he shouted _'yeah', _which sounded more like 'yay-ya', something for which he had been famous for shouting on the sidelines during his coaching days. Perry heard every individual voice – Paul's, Henny's, Val's, Carter's, Arthur and Mildreth Tragg's, Gertie's, Janet's, Kay-Kay's, Evelyn's – and so many more.

The one voice he didn't hear was Della's.

Perry whirled and headed toward Della, catching sight of Barbara Scott holding her head in her hands in stunned amazement that her 'dead-bang' case had been nothing more substantial than an elaborate frame. Judge Whitewood hammered his gavel vigorously, shouting for order above the raucous celebrations taking place in the gallery.

"Your Honor," Perry boomed above the noise, "I move for a dismissal." He had to get to Della.

Judge Whitewood banged his gavel harder. "Order! Order in the Court!" The din lessened somewhat. "Did you move for a dismissal Mr. Mason?"

Perry paused briefly, turned, and grinned. "I most certainly did, Your Honor."

"Do the People object?"

With great effort a dejected and disbelieving Barbara Scott got to her feet. "The People have no objection, Your Honor."

There was a trace of a smile on Norman Whitewood's face as he scanned the courtroom. "Very well. Case dismissed. Bailiff, take Mr. Braddock into custody. This court is adjourned." He banged the gavel one last time.

Della stared at the courtroom clock, blinking rapidly. Eleven forty-two. It had taken Perry two hours and forty-two minutes to clear her of a first-degree murder charge. Her eyes, huge and disbelieving, sought his. He closed one eye in a quick wink.

"All rise!" called the bailiff unnecessarily as a uniformed Court Officer removed Ken Braddock from the witness stand, handcuffs at the ready, and the Honorable Norman Whitewood exited the bench, robes billowing behind him.

As the spectators filed out of the courtroom, including friends and family, Perry sat down at the Defense table.

"Not a bad outcome considering I didn't exactly get a sworn statement from Frank Lynch," Paul commented, very pleased with himself.

Della, dazed and tearful, but smiling, reached for the paper Perry had picked up and threatened to read to Ken Braddock. "What is this, then?" What had that wink meant?

Paul stood up and snatched the paper from her. "The shut-off notice from the phone company."

Perry swiveled to face Della and flashed one of those dangerously jocund grins. "I didn't say I _**had**_ a statement, only if he'd like me to _**read**_ one."

Good grief. He had elicited a confession from Ken Braddock with a petty distinction, by splitting a hair.

She hated it when he did that.

"You gave me the idea," Perry continued.

"_**I **_did?"

"That day Gertie came up to the office, you grabbed a random piece of paper and claimed it was your list of people to call, and that she was next on the list. Gertie fell for it, but I saw what was on the paper, and it wasn't a list of names."

Tears welled in her eyes again.

Paul clapped his hands together. "Well, what do we do now?"

Della laughed through threatening tears. "We celebrate."

"In that case, I'd like to buy you both lunch," Paul declared, his wide grin and blonde curls making him look like a ten-year old.

Della didn't have the heart to say no to him, even though she knew the rest of her friends and relatives, who could be heard from the hallway still chattering and cheering, would be disappointed. She would have to be very deft in her explanation to them. "I'd like that. Why don't you get your car and we'll meet you out front."

"Go with Paul. I'll be along in a moment," Perry said, suddenly distracted, absorbing the fact Della had committed him to lunch with Paul before they could have as decent conversation alone.

Della's heart thudded strangely in her chest as she gathered folders and notebooks. He wasn't going to walk her out of the courtroom. He hadn't usually walked his clients from the courtroom after an acquittal, but she was different...wasn't she? As she was about to stand Perry grabbed her left forearm with both hands and leaned toward her. "Della, I…" He couldn't do it. He had already confused her by suggesting she walk out with Paul. Her eyes were moist and bewildered. He couldn't tell her. It wasn't the time or the place. She would break. And then so would he.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she patted the back of his hand. "I'm fine," she said in a husky, choked voice. "Just fine." And patted his hand again.

Perry smiled, and gave her arm one last squeeze before releasing it so Paul could escort her from the courtroom.

So Paul could perform the honor he should have performed with a glad and happy heart.

He stared down at the documents and folders in front of him and heaved a great sigh. It was over. He had won his most important case ever, and his record was intact.

But his record didn't matter. Only Della mattered, and now that he had chased away her nightmare, what would he do if he couldn't tell her how he felt? More importantly, what would he do if he could tell her how he felt?

He slid documents into folders and folders into the leather portfolio. He would need a new briefcase if he were to begin practicing law again. He didn't use a briefcase as a judge because active appeals could not be removed from the City Center. He smiled remembering how bound appeals were stacked in boxes and transported on dollies to the various justices, to be kept under lock and key in chambers. The first time he had seen the boxes being carted down the hallways in that manner he'd dubbed them 'appeals on wheels' and the term stuck. That would be his legacy to the California Appeals Court. For some reason, to be known for a quip and not for fiery dissents or cogent majority opinions pleased him.

Barbara Scott stepped hesitantly toward the victorious Defense attorney, hand held out in front of her. "Congratulations, Counselor." She wasn't completely over the shock of how Della Street's case ended, but if she didn't try to be gracious in defeat, Jack Welles would never give her another high-profile case again.

Perry shook the Prosecutor's hand. "Thank you."

"May I see that statement your associate got from Frank Lynch?"

Perry paused in his task for a moment before slipping the document back out of his portfolio. "Not only may you see it, Miss Scott, you may have it." He handed the piece of paper to her, pushed back his chair, and got to his feet, stretching to his full height. "If I were you, I'd send the police out to pick up Katherine Gordon's gun as soon as possible – maybe while Ken Braddock's fingerprints are still on it."

Barbara Scott managed a mirthless smile. "Oh sure, yes. I will." She glanced down at the paper in her hand as a legend in his lifetime, arguably the best criminal attorney ever, made a quick escape. "Hey!"

* * *

><p>Reporters and photographers swarmed Perry Mason as he emerged from the courtroom. He paused for only a few seconds, made no comments, the smile on his face not for the cameras, but for Henny, Val, Gertie, and the rest of the happily crying females in his extended family standing behind the frustrated reporters. This was why he had wanted Paul to escort Della out. Let the boy share in the glory and get his name in the newspapers. He had never experienced it before. In those days gone by Della would have been on his arm (that is if they actually exited out the front door of the courthouse) and after every case speculation about the true status of their relationship intensified. This case had been all about Della, and there was no reason to add more fuel to whatever speculation his stepping down from the bench had stirred up, not until they had a chance to talk. He'd stuck to his resolve not to read the newspapers, although he knew Val and Henny did read the newspapers, and that there was a box of clippings somewhere in the house. Someday he would read them.<p>

He carried a sea of photographers with him out of the Criminal Courts Building to the curb where he found Della wedged into the back of a…he didn't know what. He stood in front of the vehicle, eyeing it critically as cameras continued to click behind him.

"I thought Della said you had a car," he said to Paul.

"I do. This is it. Get in."

Perry handed his portfolio to Della, who was smiling and chuckling and not crying thank heaven, enjoying his consternation as he climbed onto a seat without restraints or a headrest, perched high above the pavement without so much as a door to contain him. "I suppose you think this is fun," he tossed over his shoulder to Della.

"Loads," she laughed back at him.

"You're at least somewhat protected back there," Perry pointed out. "I'm sitting out in the open."

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I left it in the courtroom."

Della laughed again, enjoying herself immensely. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

Perry and Paul exchanged covert glances, hiding their smiles. Paul put the vehicle into gear and let out the clutch a bit. Perry jerked forward in the seat, suspecting the boy had done it on purpose. He supposed he deserved it, but it was still a cheeky move.

But the boy had come through. He might have caused the rest of Della's hair to go grey, and severe cases of indigestion all around, but in the end, he had delivered the final piece of the puzzle.

"In case I forget, Paul – nice job."

Paul Drake Jr. glanced at happy, beautiful Della, then at Perry Mason's strong profile. He laughed. "You too, Counselor."

* * *

><p>Bartholomew Mason stood at the curb, feet planted apart, hands thrust into his trousers, watching the Jeep speed away down the boulevard. His blue eyes held a faraway look, and a couple of photographers, suspecting who he was, snapped several pictures before dispersing into the lingering crowd.<p>

Valerie slid her hand around her husband's elbow and gave a gentle squeeze. "It's hard when you realize they're grown up and don't need you anymore."

Bart looked down at her with a rueful smile. He had experienced that feeling more than once in the past couple years. "He never listened to a damn thing I said and yet he's able to do _**that**_." He jerked his head back toward the courthouse. For Della's sake he had hoped Perry was as good as he claimed, and to see his little brother in action had been one of the most eye-opening experiences in his life. How many hundreds of times had Perry done it? And why had it taken until now for his own brother to witness him doing it?

"He's tried to tell you, Bart. We've all tried to tell you."

"I always envisioned him defending criminals and getting them off on some sort of technicality. I didn't like the idea of it. All of the people he's defended for murder really have been innocent, haven't they?"

"Even the one case he lost the woman was innocent. Della said she sacrificed herself to protect her sister." And nearly nabbed herself a helluva man in the process, but Bart didn't need to know that. "Perry figured out who had actually committed the murder after she had been sentenced to the gas chamber."

A small shudder travelled up Bart's spine. He'd known his brother was famous and held in high professional regard, that his prowess in the courtroom had made him a wealthy man capable of commanding six figures for appearances, but he hadn't realized that in order to do that he had to be…special. Bart had seen trials before, and had participated in one as a juror recently, but none of them had been anything like this preliminary hearing. Mostly the attorneys had been dull and boring, versed in the law but not so much in their client's case, conducting defenses methodically, by the book, with very little spirit.

Perry was definitely not dull or boring, and although he was a brilliant student of the law, his methods came from no published book. When he spoke, everyone listened, enthralled with his voice, his physical presence, his utter command of the courtroom, and even when something surprised him, he wrestled it to the ground effortlessly and turned it to his advantage.

Maybe it wasn't such a hare-brained idea for Perry to practice law again.


	21. Chapter 21

TCOT Absurd Assumption C21

Perry and Della arrived back at her house around two p.m. after an enjoyable extended lunch during which Paul regaled them with his adventure in Acton, and found their brothers and sisters-in-law missing in action. A note in Bart's big, bold handwriting propped up against four gallons of tequila on the kitchen island informed that they were all out running errands and would not be back until at least six.

"I suspect there will be a party tonight," Perry remarked, eyeing the jugs of tequila. There was a lot to celebrate, not the least of which was how Junior hadn't made one combative remark during the entire meal. Perry could tell it made Della happy that he and the boy weren't at each other's throats, and if he thought she wouldn't give him the 'I told you so' eyebrow lift, he would admit he was happy about it as well.

Della sighed, but was smiling. "I hope it starts early," she said, "and doesn't go very late. I'm bushed."

"Take a nap," Perry suggested, touching his fingers to the small of her back and piloting her down the hall to the den. She did look tired. Although she'd been smiley and cheerful during lunch, she hadn't said much, letting Paul and he do most of the talking. He suspected she didn't sleep well the previous night worrying about the hearing, no matter how much she protested that she hadn't been worried about it.

She shook her head. "No, if I take a nap, I'll be up too late, and tomorrow I have a feeling Henny and Val will drag me out of bed at the crack of dawn to start writing thank-you notes."

"Judging by the amount of tequila, I don't think anyone will be getting up early tomorrow," Perry predicted.

Della laughed softly as he closed the door to the den behind them. The den smelled like him after only four days and she felt tears spring to her eyes at the thought of when he would leave and low long his scent would linger.

Perry placed his portfolio down on the desk. "Well, if you don't want to nap, why don't we combine our files and officially close this case?"

Della set her own folders down on the desk, as well as her purse, which made a thud as it landed.

"What on earth do you have in there?"

Della chuckled, reached into her purse, pulled out a leather zippered pouch approximately four inches by four inches, and shook it. "All my lucky charms," she said with a grin. "Henny thinks I have enough to fill a couple of bracelets."

"What are you going to do with them all?"

Della shrugged. "I don't know yet. Instead of bracelets, I might have them made into a long necklace. And there are a few duplicates that could be made into earrings. It was nice of so many people to send good luck charms."

"When you make up your mind, we'll take them to a jeweler and pick out a chain," Perry said, bending over the desk and beginning to lay out his folders.

_We'll take them?_

Della placed matching folders on top of his, thoughtfully silent. She had been acquitted. Everything they had tabled for after her acquittal could now move front and center.

She wasn't ready for it. Everything had happened too fast.

Perry dropped into his chair and pulled the first two files toward him. "Shall we just put all documents in one file or take the time to purge the duplicates?"

"I really should call Aunt Mae." Della moved around to the opposite side of the desk and lifted the receiver from the cradle.

"Why don't we see about getting her sprung for a day this week and bring her home for a visit," Perry suggested, attention captured by culling documents from files.

The receiver stopped inches from her ear. Would this man ever stop surprising her? Not just with alluding to his intention to be in Los Angeles for the rest of the week, but mostly for his desire to spend time with her dementia-afflicted aunt. "That would be nice," she said shakily.

Squawking noises emanated from the receiver and Della's expression registered surprise as she placed it to her ear. She must have picked up the receiver just as a call clicked in, before the phone rang. "Hello?...oh…hello Robin…yes, thank you, I am relieved…yes, he's right here." Della held the receiver out to Perry. "It's for you."

* * *

><p>Perry watched as Della left the den, pulling the door closed behind her, before speaking into the receiver. "Hi, Bird. This is a surprise." His stomach roiled, the lamb chop he'd had for lunch suddenly not agreeing with him.<p>

"Congratulations, Counselor. According to the news reports, you pulled off quite a feat today." It had taken every ounce of bravery she possessed to make this call and hearing Della's voice almost made her hang up. "What would be nice?"

"What?"

"I heard Della say 'that would be nice'."

"Oh, we were talking about her aunt. She's ill and I haven't seen her in a while..."

"So you really are staying in Los Angeles?" It was a deflated statement more than a question. Robin didn't actually want to know what would be nice, because what would be nice to her and what would be nice to Della Street were two very different things.

How could he put it so it wouldn't sound testy or contentious? "Yes." Perhaps overly simple, but he liked simple. It got the job done.

"I had to make sure," Robin said, her voice sounding suddenly far away.

"I know, Bird. I appreciate that you called."

"I couldn't let that other phone call be your last impression of me. I was hurt and blindsided, Perry. I said things I shouldn't have."

It didn't escape him that she didn't apologize for those things she said. "I did too. I didn't mean to..."

"Don't apologize. I can be civil right now, but I'm not ready to forgive and forget so soon. When do you think you'll be coming back ho...to San Francisco to pack up?"

"If it will be easier on you, I said I'd hire a service."

"No, I think for my peace of mind I need to see you."

"Robin..."

"But don't you dare bring Della."

Perry nearly laughed. This was the Robin Calhoun he knew, the woman he could talk to, could share a laugh with, not that vulgar woman from several days ago. "Of course not." She was a strong woman, but no woman could be _**that**_ strong, and he wasn't _**that**_ stupid, no matter what anyone thought.

"So when do you think you'll come back?"

"I don't know. I don't have a place to live yet. How long before the apartment will be ready to rent out again?"

"Nothing can be done until your stuff is gone." She bit her tongue to keep from asking why he wouldn't just live with Della. Could it be the love of his life was resisting?

"Then I will hire a service to clear everything out and put it in storage so you can get the apartment ready for the next tenant. You need the income."

"I'll be okay. I've got a couple of guest appearances coming up, and I read for a play this morning. Just a Broadway revival, but it has a chance of touring."

"That's wonderful, Bird."

_I owe it all to you, you big jerk._ She took a deep breath. She would be civil during this phone call if it killed her. "My agent thanks you for the free publicity. I was actually mentioned in two newspapers and three gossip rags in stories about your grand gesture for Miss Street."

Perry laughed, a short cheerless chuckle he hoped wouldn't offend Robin. "Eddie always was good at making lemonade out of lemons."

"It's really over, isn't it?" Her voice was far away again. He certainly had given her lemons. An entire tree of them.

"Yes Robin, it really is."

"How long have you wanted it to be over?"

"I won't answer that question over the telephone. If you want answers to questions like that, I'll fly to San Francisco next week." It was the least he could do. Della was still his priority, Della and the fierce love he felt for her, but Robin deserved more than just two unsatisfying telephone calls. And Della would understand the need to tie up his life in San Francisco in person, if only because there was still so much unsettled between them. "I'll call you."

"I never wanted it to be over. But it was always going to be over at some point, wasn't it?"

"Robin, please."

"Why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you, Robin. If I'm mad at all, I'm mad at myself."

"Whenever you're mad at me, you call me Robin."

Perry sighed. "Oh Robin...that is not true. I call you Robin when I feel closest to you. Calling you Bird – what everyone else calls you – is more impersonal than using your real name." Della had employed the same trick with him for years, calling him 'Chief' to keep emotions on a less intimate level than calling him by his first name. "I never wanted to hurt you."

His admission was an unexpected wallop. If she had known that all along...tears fell silently down her face, real tears from deep within her. But as an actress she could play over them. She would not let him know she was crying. "Was it ever more than physical gratification for you?"

Another emotionally loaded question begging for simplicity. "Yes." If she wanted to know what that more was, she would have to wait until they were face-to-face again.

He was relieved when his answer seemed to satisfy her. "All I really meant to do in this phone call was congratulate you. How did it feel to be back in the courtroom?"

Exciting. Thrilling. Exhilarating. Satisfying. Familiar. Fun. Home. That's what being back in the courtroom felt like. "It was everything I hoped it would be." And it had been.

"Then you will be a lawyer again?"

"Yes, I think I will."

"San Francisco needs good lawyers."

He had to admire her persistence and grinned into the telephone. "I'm a fish out of water in San Francisco. Los Angeles is more my style."

"Good luck then. You'll call next week?"

"I'll call," he promised.

"Those guest spots will be shot in LA in a couple of months. Maybe we could have lunch?"

If he had any expectations of convincing Della to give him another chance, he had to learn from past experience. Della would understand one meeting with Robin, but more than that would be asking too much of her, and Robin had to realize that. "We'll see."

"Sure. We'll see. A lot can happen in two months. I could be married again in two months." She wouldn't be, her quick marriage to George and all the money it took to get rid of him a lesson not easily forgotten. Perry had to hang up knowing that she would be all right. She wouldn't be for a long time, but eventually she would be. "I loved you, Perry."

What could he say to her that wouldn't hurt her more? He had seen a movie with Della where the heroine told the hero she loved him and he'd replied, _"I know"_. The audience had laughed boisterously, but really, it was an excellent answer, perfectly suited to the male ego.

"You don't have to say anything," Robin continued, saving him from having to come up with an answer suitable to them both. "I just wanted you to feel a little bit lousy. Good-bye, Perry."

He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before slowly placing the receiver in the cradle, rubbing his forehead. He did feel lousy. This call had been better than the first call, which gave him hope that by the time he saw her next week she wouldn't feel it necessary to make him feel lousy, because he didn't need her to make him feel lousy. He felt lousy all by himself.

Perry didn't know how long he had been staring at the telephone when it rang again, making him jump. He snatched it up automatically, completely forgetting the answering machine. "Mason."

"Mr. Mason? I sure am glad you answered. This is Betty."

"What's wrong, Betty? Is Mae all right?" Perry sat forward, weary, stooped shoulders tensing in anticipation of bad news.

Betty Andrews, Mae Kirby's nurse and companion for the past four years, chuckled. "Mae is fine. As a matter of fact, she's having a really good day. She saw the noon news about Miss Street and it snapped her out of the funk she's been in for a while. Congratulations. None of us had any doubt Miss Street didn't do it, but we're sure glad she had the best defense attorney in the world on her side." Betty added a flirty laugh.

"We should have called to give Mae the news ourselves right away but it's been a bit hectic since court adjourned," Perry said, dodging Betty's compliment, feeling compelled to make excuses for not calling Della's aunt sooner. "We actually were about to call her when another call came in. Does Mae want to talk to Della?"

"Actually Mr. Mason, she wants to talk to _**you**_. She's about worn me out nagging. Here she is."

Perry heard a few muffled words before Mae's voice came on the line, strong and clear. Whenever he spoke with Mae the strength of her voice surprised him, considering the escalating frailty of her mind. "Perry? Is that you?"

"It's me, Mae. Betty told me you heard about Della's acquittal."

"Yes, I did. Had to watch it on the news, though, like every Tom, Dick, and Harry. You could have called. I went to Atlantic City this morning but was home in plenty of time to take a call."

Perry couldn't help but smile through his weariness, shoulders drooping once again. "You went to Atlantic City? Did you have a good time?"

"Atlantic City? I've been right here all day. I sat outside in the garden, but it was chilly, so I came back inside and had a cup of tea. Why didn't you call after court adjourned?"

"I'm sorry, Mae. It's my fault. We should have called you with the good news, but just as we were about to, the phone rang and I had to take another call."

"Oh."

Perry was worried he had distracted and confused her with too much information. Complex subjects could cause complete withdrawal and compound sentences needed to be used judiciously or her focus would be compromised. He had just hit her with a triple compound. "It's good news about Della's acquittal."

To his relief that brought her back on track. "The best news. Della wouldn't kill anyone."

"You're right, Mae."

"You don't live with Della anymore. You moved away and took up with the silly actress."

"Well, Mae, Robin Calhoun isn't silly. She's a nice woman and a talented actress. You watched her on television."

"She was silly on television. Why don't you live with Della anymore?"

"Della and I never lived together, Mae." They hadn't, not officially. He stayed at her house a lot, but still always maintained his own residence. "I'll tell you a secret."

"I like secrets."

"I know you do." She didn't remember much of what was told to her now, and if she did, it usually came out garbled with memories from decades ago, so secrets were generally safe with her. "The secret is: I'm moving back to LA."

"Where have you been? Did you go to England? I went there to visit the Queen. We had tea in the garden, but it was chilly."

Uh oh, Perry thought. I'm losing her. Della was much better than he at keeping Mae's misfiring mind from being overwhelmed. "I've been in San Francisco."

Mae snorted. "San Francisco! That's no place to live. Father likes to go there but I prefer Seattle. Seattle is very green."

"I don't like San Francisco either. That's why I'm moving back to LA. I'll be able to see you more often and we'll have ice cream. Butter pecan, your favorite." Her father, Bruce Sherwood, had been dead for fifty years, but still accompanied his daughter on many of the trips Mae believed she took.

"Butter pecan is good. Della likes mint chocolate chip. Are you going to start up with Della again?"

"I hope so," he replied with much feeling.

"It almost killed her to find out about the baby, you know. If you start up with her again, make sure you don't mention that baby." Mae lowered her voice conspiratorially, sharing a secret with _**him**_.

"Baby? What baby?" He feared Mae had lost her tentative grip on lucidity. She couldn't possibly know…they had both agreed not to tell Mae.

"Della forgave you for the woman…but a baby is a horse of a different color."

"Mae, what baby?" And what woman? He didn't understand what she was talking about. How much grappling with a fragile seventy-nine year-old mind was too much? How hard could he push for an explanation?

"That woman's baby."

Mae's voice was becoming agitated and shrill and Perry feared she might disappear into her 'funk' again no matter how hard he willed her not to. She must be reaching into her own distant past with her former husband Garrett Kirby and confusing it with something Della told her. "Whose baby?"

"Stop pussy-footing around," Mae snapped. "_**Your **_baby."

"Mae, Della and I…we don't have a baby. We were never married." He hoped that would satisfy her while he tried to come up with a subject to steer her delicate grasp on reality elsewhere. What on earth could she be talking about?

"Not _**Della's**_ baby. I'm talking about _**your**_ baby in Washington DC! That's why I never go there!" Mae's voice rose to such a pitch that Perry had to yank the phone away from his ear.

Perry shouted her name into the phone, but Mae was gone. Not only whatever clarity she was experiencing had disappeared, but so had Mae herself. He heard a bang, then a rhythmic tapping, running footsteps, a scream, and a jumble of excited voices before Betty's breathless voice came over the wire.

"Mr. Mason! Mae scooted out of her room so fast I couldn't stop her. She slipped and fell against the wall in the hallway. She appears to be okay, but I think she should see a doctor just to be certain. Dr. Carlson happens to be here making rounds, so we'll get her calmed down and have him examine her. We might have to sedate her. She's pretty wound up."

"Yes, yes, do whatever you have to do to make her comfortable. Miss Street and I will be there in less than an hour."

"Frankly Mr. Mason, I don't think that's such a good idea. She's really out of control right now, and she's saying some pretty nasty things. That gal sure can cuss! I don't understand half of what she's saying, but I'll write down as much as possible for you and Miss Street. I'll call you later after the doctor has seen her. I think that's the best thing right now. This is too bad. She was having a good day. I'd better page the doctor now. Good-bye."

Perry hung up the phone and rubbed one hand over the other, almost as if obsessively washing his hands. He repeated this unconscious movement again and again as Mae's words lanced through him, the searing pain in his heart making it difficult to breathe.

_Oh my God_.

A baby.

In Washington DC.

_Oh my God_.

What had Della told Mae?

What had Laura Parrish told Della? And _**when**_ in hell had she told her?

_Oh my God_.

Had he lived through the past three miserable years because of one absurd, surreal weekend eighteen years ago?


	22. Chapter 22

TCOT Absurd Assumption C22

Della left Perry in the den at a dead run – up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she recklessly shed her suit in the bathroom, wrapped herself in a terrycloth robe, shoved bare feet into furry slippers, and then flung herself across the huge bed to silently scream into a pillow.

After days of not touching her own phone, how ironic was it that she accidentally picked up a call just now from Perry's...girlfriend? Could you even call a woman of sixty a girlfriend? What did Perry call Robin Calhoun when he introduced her to people?

Did it matter?

Yes. It mattered.

Had she really thought tearing up a napkin and virtually forcing Perry to kiss her could hide the fact that Robin Calhoun existed and that Perry had been...with her...for over two years? This was precisely why she didn't play people games – because in order for there to be a winner, there had to be a loser and she was all too aware of how these games felt from the perspective of a loser.

She had been the loser more than once.

Although being the loser had ultimately led her to Perry and a wonderful life filled with love and laughter and adventure, she remembered the searing pain of losing and the thought of being responsible for someone else's pain filled her with self-loathing.

Sometimes winning felt like losing.

Just two short hours ago she had been acquitted of a crime prior to the noon recess by the greatest criminal attorney in the world – a new record even for Perry Mason – and her stunned mind commanded her to jump in the air, fling her arms around her attorney and kiss him, but her paralyzed body would not obey. And when he'd closed up ever so slightly, then grabbed her arm and tried to tell her something, she'd done the most trite, meaningless thing she'd ever done in her life.

"_I'm fine." Pat, pat, pat on his hand. "Just fine."_

How many times had she said that before, when it had been appropriate, and not like a dog trainer congratulating a poodle that had just performed a trick?

"_Good dog." Pat, pat, pat. "Now run along and play." _

Friends and relatives swarmed around her as Paul escorted her from the courtroom, jubilant about the acquittal, and while she was grateful for their support and belief in her, she had longed to be alone with Perry, to explore their awkward moment as the sharp echo of the gavel faded around them, and thank him properly for all he had done. When Paul again insisted upon buying just her and Perry a celebratory lunch, she could have kissed the boy for so deftly removing her from the well-meaning but overwhelming hoard of people who passed her around for hugs and kisses in the courthouse hallway. Right then she needed to be with the two important men responsible for her in-the-blink-of-an-eye acquittal. There hadn't had much to go on, not much more than Perry's belief in her and his sketchy theory, and yet, she was free.

And more confused than ever. Was she the winner or the loser?

Seated in the back of Paul's 'hippie' Jeep, waiting for Perry to join them, she kicked herself for leaving him alone at the Defendant's table. Traditionally he had allowed his clients to exit before him, in order for attention to be directed at them first and foremost, and she shouldn't have expected anything different for her acquittal; who she was, or rather, who she had been, notwithstanding. Victory celebrations were also traditional, either public or very private, depending upon how much Perry liked the particular client (and vice-versa). When it was apparent the celebration would be private, Perry sometimes escorted her through the Judge's chambers and out the back of the courthouse where he flagged down a taxi to take them to a favorite night club, or to one of their apartments. Her favorite celebrations had been those private ones beginning with a sneaky escape, and if it were still that _**other time**_ she would have told Junior to scram when he asked _"Well, what do we do now?"_ instead of announcing that they would celebrate. She would have grabbed Perry's hand, dragged him out the back way, and plastered her inappropriately yearning body against his with ravening desire.

She felt her cheeks redden and sat up to place cool palms against them. A winner's celebration.

But this wasn't that _**other time**_ when their entire world revolved around each other and the practice, and she wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a blushing ingénue. No, this was a time of myriad complications: of covert glances, heart-stirring kisses, confusing conversations, and conflicting behavior between two people on the verge of being termed _**elderly**_. Perry still cared for her – otherwise why would he have stepped down from the bench to defend her? – but just when she thought they were about to make mincemeat of that damned contract article by article and get to the heart of what _**he**_ had done to them and why, something interfered. It was comical, really, how many interruptions they had endured since his return, how many conversations they had abandoned to answer the telephone or the door; how many potentially sticky situations either he or she had consciously withdrawn from to protect the walls each had built around what _**she**_ had done to them.

Tears slipped down her burning cheeks, and onto the counterpane. A loser's lament.

She had undeniably been the one to ruin them, no matter how much she tried to blame Perry for agreeing to serve out Harvey's term without consulting her. He couldn't be blamed for accepting the Governor's plea to remain on the bench and run for re-election once Harvey's original term expired, because he had done so only after being introduced to poor Bryce Hummel, which she had done only after being introduced, after a fashion, to Max and Laura Parrish, and their daughter. Perry hadn't expected to win retention, and had in fact submitted his name at the eleventh hour and refused to participate in any campaigning. His reputation and notoriety, however, had resulted in a landslide of votes in the retention election, and the five remaining years of Harvey's term she'd agreed to endure stretched to eight, and would have reached seventeen had Ken Braddock not hired Bobby Lynch to kill Arthur Gordon and frame her for the murder.

That something so inexplicable could in the long run bring her happiness was the ultimate bad joke.

For every winner there was a loser. And sometimes the winner was the true loser.

What she had done three years ago had been intended to give Perry a reason _**not**_ to seek retention to the Court, to instead allow him the freedom to accept a personal life he'd hidden since coming home from that lecture series in Washington DC she'd forced him to participate in. The 'normal' life she couldn't give him even though she loved him more than she loved herself; the 'normal' life she denied him every time she refused to marry him.

But Perry, the scoundrel, didn't do anything to make that 'normal' life a reality and she grew more and more frustrated with him until that frustration obscured every memory of their spectacular life together. Then Perry grew frustrated with her and the civility and stoic resignation with which he initially accepted the end of their relationship vanished after two weeks when he began drinking and calling her in the middle of the night, incoherent in his despondency over her willingness to act like their feelings for one another could be so easily called history. The conversations were horrible, far worse than the conversation in 1967 that had led to what she told Asher was an _extenuating circumstance_ at the core of her decision fifteen years later to point him in the direction of 'normalcy'…and push.

A major element of that push was an innocent and unsuspecting Bryce Hummel, whom Della shamefully used as a shield against Perry's suffering, as well as her own. Even though her relationship with Bryce ended after only seven emotionally intense weeks, she stalwartly assured Perry well beyond that timeframe that she had what she wanted and he should go get what he'd always wanted. It was far from the truth, and it took more resolve than she thought she possessed in regard to Perry not to break down and admit what was truly behind her decision to end their relationship, which she irrationally felt his brilliant mind should have figured out anyway, for he must have known what was going on between his good friends Max and Laura.

Perry's late-night phone calls lessened in frequency as their separation ticked by in long, lonely days, eventually becoming convivial and even welcome, as the horribleness of those first few weeks was forgiven and remarkably, largely forgotten, or at least not talked about. They met a few times after four months of separation, as Perry's reliance on alcohol waned, but only in restaurants and night clubs where their conversations couldn't get too involved, and where one night Della insisted that each dictate rules to a sympathetic bar tender who dutifully wrote them down on a series of cocktail napkins, _**in triplicate**_. Rules they must abide by in order to salvage the friendship that had been the foundation of their romance, because seeing each other again had made it plain that neither of them could conceive of life without some form of contact between them, no matter how slight or shallow or painful.

The contract sounded like a good idea…until the alcohol wore off.

Then Della returned to her big, empty house with too many walls permeated with Perry's presence and cried non-stop for twelve hours while the man himself returned to San Francisco and slept with Robin Calhoun for the first time. He'd admitted it to Mae Kirby who in turn mentioned it to her niece one day in the middle of relating a recent trip to the Australian Outback. The news was bittersweet to Della, and she wasn't sure if she should be furious with him or with herself at the disappointing turn of events, not to mention the even more disappointing pettiness displayed by Perry when he dragged her aunt into the fray. He could finally have what he'd been asking her for since before they'd ever said 'I love you' to one another, and instead of recognizing that and acting on it, he'd 'taken up', as Aunt Mae announced, with Robin 'Bird' Calhoun, a fading television actress who owned the apartment building in which he lived and whose baggage included four marriages, three children, and seven grandchildren.

Della consoled herself with the fact that Perry would have some semblance of a family with Robin Calhoun, but it galled her that her sacrifice had gone so horribly awry because she'd led Perry to water – and he'd taken a drink from the wrong damn trough.

In winning, she had lost.

When a year went by, and then another six months, and when the thing she had based her decision on didn't happen, Della didn't know what to think. So she didn't think. She didn't think for a long time.

Asher Langlois entered her life then, at the lowest low, and the attraction she felt for him had been immensely surprising. His job kept him on the road for weeks at a time, and his actual home was in Pennsylvania, so their relationship consisted primarily of long-distance telephone calls, and the occasional clandestine weekend in whatever state he might be plying his talents for whichever grass roots organization had contracted him. Asher's temperament was low-key and respectful, so when Della had first seen him in action at an event he organized opposing a Gordon Foundation project, she was taken aback. One moment he could be at a podium delivering a compelling condemnation of whatever organization opposed the organization that was paying him, and the next moment he could be whispering the sweetest, silliest compliments into her ear.

Arthur Gordon had made it clear he disliked Asher Langlois, precisely because he had been hired by an ecological concern to block a large Gordon Foundation project to revitalize abandoned gold mines and Della was essentially consorting with the enemy. Still smarting from her resistance to his ill-fated advance, Arthur grudgingly tolerated Della's involvement with Asher because the man made her smile again, and he had missed that smile from his Executive Assistant.

Della tried extremely hard to fall in love with Asher. He was conventional and old-fashioned despite the progressive causes he gave such impassioned speeches for, and he made it clear that their casual, open-ended relationship wasn't enough for him. In his world, if you slept with someone, you married them. In Della's world, it meant nothing of the sort, as scandalous as that might be. Their unconventional, contemporary relationship was ideal for her after the intense amount of time she'd spent with Perry, and she was reminded of a similar relationship she had been content to keep at status quo until that man had also shocked her with a diamond ring and wondered how she could have misread both men so badly…and they her.

Asher worked hard and constantly, moving from cause to cause and state-to-state every few weeks, depending upon the complexity of the project at hand. His primary focus was to establish a firm foundation for whatever organization hired him, to stir up publicity and generate momentum to carry the cause to its zenith. He was the lobbyist, the figurehead, the dynamo behind whom troops rallied until a local general schooled by Asher moved up through the ranks to take over. Not as tremendous a public speaker as Perry, Asher relied primarily on a heavily practiced style and rapid-fire talking points than on depth of knowledge or a true passion for the subject, but he got the job done and was paid handsomely for it. In personal conversations, Asher was reserved and sincere, and very much like Perry in that he rarely said anything he didn't mean directly to a person. Asher was also very much _**unlike**_ Perry in that he never quite could manage to say just the right thing.

Knowing all of that about Asher, Della had cried the first time the word 'love' popped up in conversation, and it was weeks later she realized Asher had taken her tears as a positive sign in regard to the truth of her feelings for him. The relationship had appealed to her specifically because she could easily balance their limited time together against her tenuous friendship with Perry, and her demanding job, but it wasn't enough for Asher who had gotten down on one knee, offered marriage, a promise to retire from his own demanding job, and the specter of a settled life.

What Asher didn't know, because she had never spoken about her life with Perry, was that she had been living a settled life, and she hated it, an emotive reaction and word she'd never considered lightly. Flying to meet him in Oregon or New York or even _**Indiana**_ for pity's sake, added a bit of excitement that had been missing from her life, and their time together was enjoyable, because she was truly and deeply fond of him. Not being in love with him made turning down Asher's proposal easier than turning down any one of Perry's dozens of proposals, but it broke her heart just the same.

She was still dealing with that broken heart two weeks later when Arthur Gordon was murdered. Calling Perry had been a measure of her desperation, her utter loneliness, her need to hear his voice and pretend he still cared for her in the wake of losing yet another important person in her life. And miraculously, he had done the one thing that would ease her desperation, banish her loneliness, and prove he still cared for her. It was unexpected, intoxicating, and smacked of high drama and grand-standing. In other words: vintage Perry Mason.

Della slid off the bed, and went to stand by the window on the opposite wall overlooking the back yard. In the days since her arrest she hadn't ventured into her own yard, once her pride and joy, and the plants were untended and desperate for water, fading quickly into the cooler evening weather. The garden had been her sanctuary, her escape from the aching loneliness she had purposely brought into her life, but now she could barely stand to look at it. The beauty she had cultivated mocked her with its transiency and she wondered why she had ever thought that anything, including a part-time cat and especially flowers, could take the place of loving and being loved.

She felt his presence again before she heard him, so light on his feet for a big, tall man, his dynamic energy filling the space that surrounded him. He stood in the doorway watching her, no doubt with hands in pockets, feet planted apart, eyes hooded and brooding.

"What did Robin want?"

"To congratulate me."

_Is that really all, Perry? _"That was nice of her."

"Yes, it was." He didn't expound on the call, or say that Robin wished her all the best, because right now Robin probably wished her all kinds of hell, and Della was intuitive enough to know that, no matter what he might claim she said. "You know, you should look happier when your attorney is around. It makes him feel like all his hard work is appreciated."

"All your hard work _**is**_ appreciated. I should have thanked you sooner." _At least before your...girlfriend...called._

"All the thank you I need is to see my clients happy."

Della leaned her head against the smooth, cool glass of the window. "That's all you've ever wanted, all you've ever expected, isn't it?"

"That's all I'll ever want."

They weren't talking about just any client. And they weren't talking about just her acquittal.

She closed her eyes, but not before several tears slid down her cheeks. "Seeing you at the jail…that made me happier than I've been in a long time. I needed you, but I was afraid to ask you to…I – I really thought you'd send Frank Heartwell. I thought what I'd done to us – I thought you would stay away to make me happy."

"Did my staying away the past three years make you happy, Della?"

She shook her head slowly, rolling it back and forth across the glass, trying to remember when she had felt so miserable. Possibly her entire life depended on what the phone call from Robin Calhoun was all about and what she said to him from this point forward and it scared her. "No. I tried to be happy…but I hurt too many people while trying."

"That makes two of us."

Della took a moment to absorb his reply and to gather her wits to form a question, one of the hundred questions she should have asked him three years ago. "Were you happy with me, Perry? Truly happy? Forever after happy?" _Happier than you've been with Robin Calhoun?_

"Yes." Simple was still best.

If he asked her the same question right now, her answer would require color-coded note cards, several relief breaks, and an entire box of tissues because to her their relationship had been so very, very complicated. She had accused him of over-simplifying their relationship from the beginning, yet his one word answer carried more wisdom and eloquence than any poem or proverb known to man, because it was the truth; his truth, the plain, simple axiom of his life. It stole her breath with its purity.

He had been happy, and then he hadn't been happy.

She had been responsible for both his happiness and his unhappiness.

And if she had asked that elementary question before deciding that she couldn't possibly make him as happy as he deserved, neither of them would have ever been unhappy. What could she possibly say that would equal the potency of that single word? "So was I."

"Will you finally tell me why you thought I wasn't?"

"I can't," she whispered. "I've hurt you so much already."

"Whatever it was hurt you more, Della. I should have figured it out sooner. How about I skip right to guess number three and say it was Laura Parrish? That dinner with Max when he first moved to LA – when Laura called the office looking for him?" _And you gladly took the call from a friend of mine, didn't you, baby? And tried to have a nice conversation with her because she was my friend._

Della sniffed and nodded.

His arms slid around her and drew her gently against him, his lips nuzzling the delicate skin behind her ear. It was inexcusable that he hadn't put the pieces together before now, that it had taken clues from a dementia patient to bring the past three years into focus. Laura had dropped a hint about having spoken to his 'delightful secretary' when she'd shown up at his apartment after hearing about the end of his relationship with Della from Max, but he'd been too distraught to pick up on it or Laura's other hints about more troubles between her and Max. If he had listened, if he had realized…well, it was no use kicking himself now, three years later.

"What did Laura tell you?"

Tears again slid down her cheeks, remembering that telephone call from Laura Parrish the night Perry met Max Parrish for dinner to discuss '_lots of things'_. "Oh, lots of things," Della said very deliberately and felt Perry stiffen slightly. "She began with how she hadn't wanted to have children, but once she knew her daughter was on the way, being a mother became the most important thing in the world to her. She said that her pregnancy had brought her and the _**baby's father **_closer together than they had ever been and that her daughter adored _**her father**__, _even though _**her father **_was a busy man and couldn't spend as much time with her as he'd like."

"What else did she tell you?"

Although she was warm and safe in his embrace, Della began to shiver. "She mentioned when her daughter was born in relation to the weekend you returned from Washington DC. It was really quite deft the way she worked the dates into the conversation. And the way she managed to let me know how nicely your _**bachelor**_ apartment was decorated. So masculine – so very much like the man who lived there."

His arms tightened around her as the shivering transitioned to outright trembling. "Anything else?"

"I could hear her daughter whining about not being able to go to a party in the background, interrupting, and Laura finally lost her temper. She called the girl by her full name when she scolded her."

Perry swayed slightly, rocking her gently, dreading what Della was about to tell him, distraught from what she had already told him. "I see."

"When I commented on her daughter's name, Laura told me _**you**_ had been very specific about what the girl's middle name should be."

"Laura asked my opinion. I gave it. That's all there was to it."

The tears were flowing freely now as the memory of her conversation with Laura Parrish three years ago reached out and tore her heart from her chest once again. "How could you, Perry? I could have accepted knowing who it was you slept with, but how could you name your daughter Kaitlynn _**Mae**_?"


	23. Chapter 23

TCOT Absurd Assumption C23

_Note: This chapter refers heavily to my previous stories TCOT Pretty Stones and Something to Hide, and emphatically exposes my opinion of TCOT Heartbroken Bride. ~ D_

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><p>A conversation from long ago, not spoken about much, but not forgotten, crept into Perry's mind.<p>

"_Three girls. Lyla Mae, Julia Mae, and a little oops Stacy Mae."_

"_Why would we not just name one of these pretty curly-haired girls Mae?" _

"_Because Aunt Mae says that a proper first name has two syllables. One syllable names are afterthoughts meant to be middle names."_

Kaitlynn Mae.

_Oh my darling Della, how you must have suffered._ _How could I have not seen what was going on before now? How could I have allowed this to happen?_

Della's wrenching sobs were physical blows to his body, years of emotion pummeling him into a wretched mass of regret. He had to stop her tears, had to tell her everything he'd kept to himself with the lovingly misguided intention of protecting her. She was strong, stronger than any person he knew, and he should have trusted in that strength.

"Darling, Laura asked my opinion on whether her daughter's middle name should be Maxine, or Mae – which coincidentally is Laura's middle name. My _**opinion **_was that Kaitlynn's middle name should be Mae because it's one syllable and therefore meant to be a middle name. I did not _**insist**_ upon it. I had no right to insist on anything regarding Kaitlynn." His arms tightened around her, in the hope his embrace could shelter her from the pain his words were causing. "A daughter of mine would have been named Lyla Mae, Julia Mae, or Stacy Mae. We agreed on that. Actually, we agreed on Danielle or Daniela instead of Julia, I believe."

Della squirmed in his arms, tears escaping from closed eyes, reliving not only a fantasy, but something very, very real as well. "Perry…"

"Della, we're going to have conversations we should have had years ago. Right now. We have to talk about what happened in DC…what happened before that time and afterward...no matter if it's too late or not."

She pushed harder against him, shook her head from side to side. "Perry..."

"When I came home from DC after that terrible phone call and you were gone, I couldn't sleep or eat and I sure as hell couldn't work. I was acting so crazy that Paul and Harvey threatened to have me committed. And Tragg, damn him, volunteered to provide a police escort to the asylum."

"Perry…I have to sit down."

The shiver that had become trembling was now full-blown shaking. Her teeth chattered, and as Perry led her to the bed, she leaned heavily on him, legs weak and wobbly. He sat her down, swung her legs onto the mattress, and gently pushed her back onto the collection of accent pillows at the head of the bed. One long arm reached out, snatched a crocheted throw from a slipper chair that had once been in her childhood bedroom, and draped it over her. She was pale, those seven cherished fawn-colored freckles standing out almost starkly against translucent skin, eyes dark green and huge.

He sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, facing her. "I'm sorry you learned who Laura was from Laura herself, and I'm sorry she said those things, but _**I'm**_ telling you that Kaitlynn is not my daughter."

"I'm very good at math, Perry. You've always said so."

Indeed she ran circles around him with practical math, but she was being anything but practical at the moment. "Baby, you've added two and two and come up with twelve. Kaitlynn is no more my daughter than Kay-Kay is."

Della's hand emerged from beneath the throw and sought his. Her skin was icy and he winced. "You don't have to deny it to spare my feelings, Perry. Kaitlynn deserves more from you."

"No, Kaitlynn has everything she deserves from her _**parents**_. _**I **_deserve more from _**you**_**.** And _**you **_certainly deserve more from _**me**_."

"Kaitlynn was born nine months and three days after you…after you and Laura Parrish…she wasn't born too early like Kay-Kay was."

"The timing of her birth may be more incriminating than Kay-Kay's, but Kaitlynn is not my daughter. She can't be mine." Inasmuch as he'd promised himself to be nothing but honest with Della, there was a deep secret he'd held onto for far too long under the guise of protecting her. He thought of the ridiculousness of this situation, and would have laughed if it weren't so serious and urgent. Janet Brent Timmons had commented on the astronomical odds of both she and Della being accused of murder in their lifetimes, but how high were the odds against a man being accused of fathering two children that couldn't possibly be his, all the while being unable to acknowledge the one child he actually had fathered?

"So the story now is you didn't sleep with Laura Parrish?"

"No, I can't deny it. I wish to God I hadn't, but I did. But that fact alone doesn't mean Kaitlynn is my daughter."

"I recall hearing a very similar denial once before."

"This time I'm even more certain than I was about Kay-Kay. There is absolutely no doubt Kaitlynn is Max's daughter."

"Being an astute businessman, I suppose Max would have insisted on a paternity test." Della surmised. "Or was it you who insisted on it?" It took everything she had to sound calm and logical. If she hadn't been such a shrew eighteen years ago, so horrible to him on the phone that day, would Kaitlynn Parrish even exist?

"I'm not sure if Max knows about what happened between me and Laura. I left it up to her whether or not to tell him." She had threatened for years to tell him, but most likely hadn't, or by now Max would have confronted him. Kaitlynn was the light of Max's life, and rightfully so.

"Didn't it bother you to betray your friend like that, Perry?" _And by the way, Perry Mason, didn't it bother you to betray __**me**__ like that? _ Poor Max Parrish. To be so deceived by his wife and a supposed friend...she knew all too well how betrayal like that felt. But then, did she even have the right to accuse Perry of betraying her considering what she had said to him?

"I wasn't exactly thinking straight when it happened, and I suffered a boatload of remorse afterward, if that restores any respect for me at all. You have to understand that Max and Laura have always had a troubled marriage. During the three months I was in DC Laura left him twice, and Max filed for divorce. Max and Laura are bright and ambitious and I enjoyed their company, both together and separately. As I got to know her better I realized Laura was confused and looking for stability in her life, and believed I could give her that stability." Laura, cool and blonde, possessed a similar intelligence and wit as his warm brunette Della, but he learned too late how effectively that coolness hid the weak, dependent nature of Laura's personality, whereas Della's warmth sprang from strength and independence.

"I'm perfectly aware of how you can set the heart of young women aflutter, Mr. Mason. You forget I dealt with the fallout of your charms for longer than I care to admit."

"Yes you did, and I spent just as long apologizing for things that weren't entirely my fault." If more people knew about his relationship with Della, most of the um, _encounters_, would have been completely avoidable. But he couldn't place blame on Della for seeking privacy. As his professional notoriety grew, so did his own craving for a private personal life. Della stood with him as he in essence became public property, the woman behind the man; when in reality she was the woman responsible for who he was, not just what he was. "I only wanted to be Laura's friend. I got in over my head."

Della's perfect but pale complexion quickly turned a sickly grey. "Y-you were involved with her in DC?"

"I was involved with _**them **_and trying to save their marriage. And I was upset about _**us**_, Della…about how bad things were between us at that time. Helping Max and Laura gave me something to concentrate on." He gave a rueful snort. "As ludicrous as it was, I tried to be a marriage counselor to keep my mind off of our problems. I never knew when Laura would show up for a shoulder to cry on after another argument with Max, and there were a lot of sleepless nights spent talking her off the ledge. By the time the term ended I was a nervous wreck but Laura and Max were back together, and I was anxious to get home to you."

"You were attracted to her." Five words, flatly stated, rhetorical, soul crushing. _You were attracted to her because I was a nasty and confused myself..._

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, remembering his recent conversations with Robin Calhoun. Simple honesty really was the best thing. It was when he hadn't been completely forthcoming that things went awry. "Yes, I was attracted to her," he admitted quietly. "Nothing happened in DC, Della. You have my word. Laura wanted something to happen, but I convinced her what a bad idea it was and that she needed to give her marriage a chance." His culpability in several sticky situations with beautiful women, what Della referred matter-of-factly to as his miasmatic attractiveness, revealed itself like a thunderbolt in his brain. What a dolt he was. It _**was**_ entirely his fault. It had _**always**_ been his fault for hiding things from her.

"And yet a week later she's in your bed."

"Laura is stubborn. You're aware of that particular personality trait, are you not?" He paused just long enough for his point to sink in, eyes boring into hers, hoping she could see he wasn't blaming her, or making excuses. "She's intelligent, witty, and an inveterate dreamer. When life doesn't live up to her dreams, she becomes a completely different woman. She wound up in my bed because I discovered too late she's a master at disguising her true self. I didn't have the strength or conviction at that point to stop her, and she took advantage of my weakness. Despite what happened that weekend, when it comes to Kaitlynn and the events surrounding her birth, you can't believe a word Laura says. It's impossible for Kaitlynn to be my daughter."

A short silence captured them. Her words responded icily to his, beating him to the punch, as it were, hurting him before he could hurt her more. "Nothing is impossible, Perry. We, of all people, know that to be true."

They held each other's gaze for long moments as the most wonderful, miraculous, excruciatingly beautiful, shatteringly painful shared memory hovered silently between them, begging for them to finally release what lay buried in such painful silence.

Perry was selfishly relieved not to have been the one to bring up the forbidden, tender subject, as well as thankful for the perfect opening to tell her what he had done years before Washington DC. "Della, do you think that after what happened that shouldn't have happened…when I could have lost you…do you honestly think I would have allowed it to happen again? Trust me when I say it's impossible for Kaitlynn to be my daughter."

Della studied him with a puzzled look, parsing and dissecting his words, a little furrow forming between her undeniably beautiful eyes, the chill surrounding her increasing with each second that passed. When the enormity of what he must have done to make sure the impossible couldn't ever be possible again…her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. "Oh my God, Perry. No."

He hitched himself closer to her and took her face between his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the new tears spilling from her eyes. "I couldn't take a chance with your life, beautiful girl. No matter what, I wasn't going to let you go through the impossible again. It was the only way I could think of to keep you safe. So while you were still in the hospital recovering...I made **_absolutely_** _**sure **_it could never happen again."


	24. Chapter 24

TCOT Absurd Assumption C24

_Note: And the talking continues...thank you for your patience._

_ More references to TCOT Pretty Stones. ~ D_

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><p>A crying woman was perhaps the only thing in the world Perry Mason felt no confidence in dealing with, and a crying Della Street had never been an exception to that lack of confidence.<p>

Until Della Street had been accused of murder, and suddenly, after thirty years, he knew exactly how to react to her tears.

No explanation, no plea, no whispered words of consolation would stop her tears or soothe the suffering at their root. All he could do was hold her, and hope that she could understand what he had done, and why he had done it.

Despite all the honesty in the room, he would still protect her from the truth of what her father had done to her mother, and what he wouldn't have considered for a moment discussing with Della's team of doctors. But he could let her know the course of action he'd decided on – hardly a new procedure, and one that was in fact gaining respect as the most sensible, most reliable, least invasive permanent form of birth control, after having been ignorantly performed primarily as a 'humane' alternative to prevent the procreation of 'defectives', i.e., those determined to be physically abhorrent, mentally disturbed, or criminally insane. What held the procedure back from mainstream acceptance for years was the male ego, an artificially inflated and often blindly revered entity if there ever was one, but it hadn't been difficult at all for Perry to set that deterrent aside, because what kind of life would he have without Della, ego and seed intact?

He knew exactly the kind of life he would have. He had been living it for the past three years. And it was no life at all.

It had been the right thing to do, even though he doubted many would have thought so at the time, especially Della herself. His brother, his cousins, his friends, and eventually his nephews – all had gone forth and procreated admirably. There were plenty of Masons in the world. He didn't have a deep yearning to contribute to the clan unless Della could be the mother, and there was no way in hell he'd let her take the chance ever again. Paul Drake would have sided with him if Junior wasn't in the picture because once the shock and recriminations surrounding his son's birth faded, Paul could never have wished the child away. So he hadn't told a living soul what he had done.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I should have told you. I just didn't know how." He spoke softly into her hair, his deep voice hardly more than a minor vibration. "I'm the big, strong man and it was my job to protect you."

"Oh my God." She sniffed, rubbed her nose back and forth across his shirt, and he hugged her closer to him. "Oh my God," she repeated. "I thought…oh Perry. Why did you do it?" Myriad emotions jumbled together in her brain: helplessness, affection, anger, tenderness, despair, happiness. She wanted the spinner to land on angry because had she only known, the past three years would have been very different for so many people.

"It turns out I was wrong when I claimed I could live without making love to you, and I was not going to put your life in jeopardy ever again because of my selfishness."

"Your selfishness?" Della's voice rose slightly, pulled up by her eyebrows, remembering that conversation from years ago when her – what had Carter called them…_**shortcomings**_ were revealed – when Perry with more emotion than in his impassioned final arguments declared he could live without making love to her, but couldn't possibly live without _**her**_.

"I couldn't lose you, Della. If it happened once, no matter how careful we were, no matter that the doctors said it would be impossible, it could have happened again, and I knew you…we…would have done everything we could to…I couldn't lose you. I had to protect you."

Perry had accused Della's father of being prurient and callous years ago, but when faced with the exact situation Jamison Street faced, his initial reaction had been the same as the older man's.

It frightened and sickened him to think about it.

That's why he had done what he had done: to presciently spare himself from having to face a decision he could never make. To protect _**himself.**_

"I should be very, very angry with you, Perry." She sighed deeply, her trembling easing. "Trust me, I'm trying to be…but all I feel is…sad."

Perry felt something pass between them at that moment, whether it was acceptance, encouragement, permission, or whatever, for the first time in nearly twenty years they were talking about the fact they had conceived a child. He knew Della felt it as well, because she pushed herself away from him so that they were nose-to-nose. It was all right. The world wouldn't end if they talked about the baby they thought could never be but nearly had been. And it would be a whole new world if they talked about other things as well.

"Everyone around us was married and having children – even _**Paul**_ for heaven's sake – and I couldn't give you children, let alone marry you," she continued after several seconds of holding his gaze silently. "Then I was pregnant when I shouldn't have been...and you would have a wife and a family, just like you wanted. Just like all your friends had."

"But Della, I didn't want what my friends had. I wanted _**you **_and what _**we**_ had." He had always joked about what he called his damned conservative disposition, those rights and wrongs dictated by his parents and his older brother, the ingrained morals he strove to reconcile with the man he truly was. He probably wouldn't have been an ideal husband and father because he had never envisioned himself as such, which Della recognized, accepted, and loved him despite of it, while he refused to.

"Oh, Perry." It came out as a sigh, floating in the tiny space between them. Too late it was becoming crystal clear to her.

Perry took her face between his hands once more. Della grasped his wrists and leaned her forehead against his while he spoke tenderly. "When did we stop talking to one another, Della? How did we allow so many secrets to take over our lives? What the hell happened?"

"It was my fault." She paused to gather her strength. "When I was sick…when...it happened…you were so worried and – and I thought if we didn't talk about it, it couldn't hurt us. Then it became easier not to talk about a lot of things that hurt."

"It hurts whether we talk about it or not, and it will hurt forever, darling. I was scared out of my mind."

"So was I. You were scared, but you were happy too – happy that I was finally going to marry you, happy that you were going to have a family... And then when...when there was no baby...you were so sad..."

"Of course I was sad. I mourned for our baby, Della. I still do." He pulled away to look at her better, to see the emotions in her big, beautiful eyes more clearly. "I never thought much about being a father, Della. I would have done it, and tried to be good at it...for you, if that's what you wanted. I was happy because you were happy."

"And we're right back where we started."

He tugged at a curl near her temple, gently sliding it behind her ear. "You have always made me happy, my love."

"Did I make you happy when...after...when I wouldn't go through with marrying you?"

Perry was quiet for a few seconds. "No. It didn't make you happy, either."

It hadn't made her happy. But being grief-stricken over a miscarriage was no reason to get married – especially when all the same reasons they hadn't gotten married before the miscarriage still existed. Each anniversary would only be a painful reminder of what had happened and she didn't want a marker for that pain. "Do you remember a long time ago when you coached me on the fine art of blurting?"

Perry chuckled softly. "You kept warning me when you were about to say something earth-shattering."

"Do you remember what my first official blurt was?"

"That you were afraid you weren't enough for me," he responded instantly. There was no need to search his memory for that one. It had haunted him from the moment she blurted it. "Oh, Della..."

"Was I still enough for you then?"

"You were always so much more than I deserved."

"Then imagine for a moment how I must have felt when Laura Parrish dropped all those hints that Kaitlynn was your daughter. You were my entire world, and I thought I was yours...you said so. You even gave me the world to wear on my charm bracelet."

"Della –"

"Let me finish. I also thought the mess after Washington DC was buried in the past…only to find out fifteen years later that the wife of your _**good friend**_ Max Parrish was the woman you'd slept with, that you had a daughter with her and had kept it all hidden from me. I was so angry with you. I still am." She scowled at him to show how serious she was.

"Then why for the love of Mike didn't you confront me about what Laura said? Why did you hold it all in? We could have cleared the whole thing up and I never would have –"

"Because I was angry at you for staying with me when you should have been with Laura all those years, raising your daughter," Della interrupted. "We weren't really together, with you in San Francisco and me in Los Angeles...as a judge you didn't need me anymore, so I stepped out of the picture. I wasn't going to be an obligation any longer."

If she had punched him between the eyes he couldn't have been more flabbergasted. _An obligation?_ "I didn't need you anymore? Della, if anything, I needed you more than I ever had, and I would _**never**_ have left you for Laura. I told you that fifteen years ago, and I meant it. I only let you leave three years ago because you said you wanted to be with Hummel. I never for one moment considered our separation had anything to do with Laura Parrish. I just wanted you to be happy and if being with Hummel made you happy, then...then… "

"Everything for me," she said in that floating whisper again.

"Always for you."

"Pardon the melodrama, but was it really for _**me**_ you decided to bring Max and Laura out of the shadows? Both of us had friends we didn't share with one another, and that was perfectly fine, considering we needed to go to separate corners sometimes. What made you think it was a good idea to let yet another woman you'd slept with into our life?"

Almost without realizing it, Perry's lips touched Della's briefly. "I'm so sorry, baby. Max went into partnership on the talent agency in LA and asked for legal advice. I referred him to Jim Brandis, and when he suggested we get together, I couldn't very well say no. That's when I found out he and Laura were still battling, and she was threatening to stay in Virginia without him. Darling, Kaitlynn isn't my daughter, but I'm very fond of her. I've been Uncle Perry to a little girl and I like it. Laura had been behaving herself for years…I thought it would be okay to finally talk about them to you."

"Sometimes I don't know whether to be honored or offended that you loved me," Della said in exasperation. "The other women you've been involved with are so similar that I've often wondered what attracted you to me in the first place, because I sincerely hope I'm nothing like any of them. You are so perceptive of human behavior Perry Mason – except when it comes to personal interactions with women."

"Della, I didn't mean to offend you by saying Laura reminded me of – "

"Perry, you don't see it do you? You don't see that every single woman you've paraded in front of me for thirty years has absolutely no idea who you are? They all formed an _**idea**_ of who you are, because you are so very attractive in _**every possible way**_. They wanted the idea, the idealized Perry Mason, and took advantage of you – of the one thing they were all able to recognize in you. And you enabled them along the way, because no matter how hard-boiled you want people to think you are, you are vulnerable and trusting when you like someone. You allowed those women chance after chance to redeem themselves in the face of your attraction to them, refusing to give up on _**your**_ idea of who _**they**_ are. And when they disappoint you, instead of confronting them about it, you look the other way and hope their behavior will change. You would never do that with a client." Well, except for one client…but that was another discussion for another time.

She was right, of course. He had allowed that 'parade' of women too much latitude in his personal dealings with them, which had disappointed Della, the one woman who had never disappointed him. "Then why on earth did you think I would be better off with Laura Parrish?"

"Because there was a child involved, Perry! You have an established precedent – you married Maryann Baynum because she was pregnant. I thought you would – _**should**_ – marry the mother of your child, just as your mother would have wanted. So when Laura said she had filed for divorce…it was the last thing in the world **_I_** wanted, but I had to let you go so you could be with your daughter…but I couldn't talk about it..."

Perry made an anguished noise, a cross between a moan and a sigh. Laura may have behaved herself for several years, but the damage she had caused in a phone call that evening three years ago boggled the mind. Telephones certainly seemed to bring out the worst in people. "Oh Lord, Della. _**Max**_ wanted out of the marriage, which put Laura in a panic because she's needy and can't be alone. Max told her you and I were separated, so she flew to San Francisco and was sitting on my doorstep, still claiming that Kaitlynn was mine and that she was finally going to tell Max. I told her there was nothing between us, definitely not Kaitlynn, and sent her back to her family. I've kept in touch with Kaitlynn but I haven't spoken with Laura in over two years."

"I was so angry with you," Della repeated, her voice now just above a whisper, trying to digest everything he was telling her. "I gave up what we had so you could be a father to your daughter, and what did you do? You got involved with Robin Calhoun! The only positive I saw in that was the fact she had grandchildren and you would have a family of sorts."

"Well, since you were my family and I didn't know what you'd done or why, what did you expect me to do? I was lonely for you and blamed myself for everything that happened by promising Harvey I'd sit out his term. I really thought it was the distance I'd put between us that was the last straw for you, why you turned to Hummel, and I couldn't stand in your way if you weren't happy. As for Robin...I'm human. I need human contact."

She slid her hands along his arms until they rested on his shoulders, aching with her own loneliness, her own need for human contact. The clarity with which she now saw things was stunning: together they were happy and apart they were unhappy. It really wasn't complicated at all. Son-of-a-biscuit, Perry had been right all these years. "If I hadn't insisted on the bartender writing down those preposterous rules and told you I never slept with Bryce Hummel, and in fact hadn't seen him in several weeks, what would have happened that night?"

This time he was completely aware that his lips touched hers; rejoicing in the thrill of kissing her, and when she made a low purr deep in her throat, he knew that the love they shared wasn't behind them. It was in front of them, beckoning, waiting for them to resuscitate it, to embrace it, to live it. He ended the kiss to smile crookedly at her. "You know, I've gotten better at math over the years. All of the other women in my life don't add up to one of you, Della Street."

Most women would have slapped him for saying such a thing, but Della couldn't imagine a more perfect response from a most imperfect man to an equally imperfect woman. A tender smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. _Perfect numbers, like perfect men, are very rare*._

Perry leaned forward, reached out his arm, and swept every single designer accent pillow to the floor before gently lowering her to the frightfully expensive down pillows he preferred to sleep on.

Della's fingers slid through his thick, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair, as his lips found the pulse point at the hollow of her collarbone, and smiled against blushed skin when her heartbeat quickened. "What are you doing?" She knew with euphoric exhilaration exactly what he was doing, but needed him to tell her to make it real.

"I'm preparing a demonstration as to what would have happened that night given the intriguing scenario thusly outlined."

"It's about damn time," she said in a whisper enveloped by desire, surrendering to everything she had always loved about him, would forever love about him, walls lying in ruins at her feet. "Proceed with the demonstration, Mr. Mason."

Her robe was impatiently pushed aside and his hands, warm and gentle and sure of their course, caused exquisite shivers to emanate from deep within her soul outward. His tongue laved tender skin, heating it, then cooling it by gently blowing along the same path, and she cried out at the indescribable pleasure. Perry's arms surrounded her, lifted her from the mattress to press her heart against his heart.

"I love you, Della. I have always loved you and I will never stop loving you."

Della's arms circled his neck and brought his mouth down to hers in a kiss they were certain to talk about the rest of their lives.

_*Rene Descartes_


	25. Chapter 25

TCOT Absurd Assumption C25

_Note: Here it is...the little chapter __**before**__ the big final chapter._

_Thank you to my beta, my friend, the wildly talented StartWriting whose insight placed just the right word/phrase where it was needed, and sent me in directions I hadn't thought of. _

_I am so glad this monkey is off my back. However, I'm developing an alarming urge to 'fix' TCOT Heartbroken Bride. _

_~ D_

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><p>Perry Mason could count on one hand the number of times he had cried in his life.<p>

The first time he remembered was at seven when his father died and the confusing funeral rituals, combined with his mother's catatonic grief and brother's smothering protectiveness and constant remonstrations to _'be_ _a little man'_, had frightened him as much as the realization he would never see his father again. He had crawled into his parent's closet and sobbed among the suits hanging there, finding great solace in the darkness permeated with his father's cologne.

The second time was when he was over thirty and his mother had fallen gravely ill, and he hadn't been able to be with her when she passed away. To this day he wasn't quite sure if all of his tears had been for the gracious, wonderful woman who had been his mother, or if some of them were for the self-centered, petty woman Laura Cavanaugh had shown herself to be during the saddest period of his life.

The third time tears had overcome him was when, despite the best medical care in the world, a true miracle couldn't be saved.

He hadn't cried eight and six years ago when first Harvey Sayers, then Paul Drake died, both of them well south of sixty years old.

And he hadn't cried three years ago when the love of his life, the woman for whom he breathed, walked away from him.

But he cried now at sixty-three as he held the weeping, trembling woman he'd loved beyond all reason for almost half of his life, the woman who had never let go of one little bit of his heart. He cried at the profundity of his feelings for her; at how indescribable sex was with her; at how his heart, mind, and soul converged as a whole only in her presence. And if he had never known how to react to Della's tears, he was completely flummoxed by his own.

"I…the way you make me feel…when we…it's…" he couldn't finish his thought, let alone begin it.

When she realized the big, powerful man she had loved for more than half of her life was crying, Della wept harder, even as she kissed his tears away, cooing and shushing with each tender touch. They cried together, each whispering words only the other could possibly understand, the chasm of hurt beginning to heal itself.

* * *

><p>Della sighed.<p>

"My sentiments exactly," Perry's voice rumbled in her ear.

She was lying sprawled atop him in her usual post-coital position, one leg drawn up and across his hips to hold her in place, cheek pillowed against his broad chest, head tucked beneath the long line of his jaw. Their tears finally dried, she had been contentedly listening to the beating of his strong heart, the beloved music missing from her life for far too long.

"We shouldn't have done that." She sighed again.

"Ohhhh yes we should have."

He could feel Della's passion-plumped lips curve slowly into a sly smile against his heated skin.

"And furthermore, I think we should do it again. Not only in the very near future, but also on a fairly regular basis for the rest of our lives. What do you think?"

Della sat up then, grasping the sheet to cover her resplendent nudity. "You can forgive me just like that?" She expertly snapped her fingers.

"I hope I made it perfectly clear that I can. That I have." He propped himself up on his elbow. "There isn't anything you could do that I wouldn't forgive."

His rumble of a voice was a ripple she felt instead of heard, and she shivered at the power of it.

"Della, I have never loved anyone the way I love you. I've given my life to you, and I would give it _**for**_ you. It will take so much more than a – a misunderstanding to overshadow what I feel for you."

"Would you have forgiven me if I actually had murdered Arthur Gordon?" Poisonous feelings of unworthiness and disappointment were proving difficult to set aside.

Perry had the temerity to laugh and she drew her brows together in a scowl. "Such a ferocious frown, my love, for no good reason. You have a temper, but you would never hurt anyone, and your capacity to forgive has always far exceeded mine. I know where you're headed with this, and don't think for a moment I'll let you get away with it."

"But Perry," she protested weakly, for good measure.

"But Perry, nothing," he said sternly, the rumble becoming almost a shock wave coursing jaggedly through her sensitized body. "I'm the one who let everything go to hell in a hand basket. I should have told you about meeting Max and Laura in DC, and I should have admitted it was Laura…about Kaitlynn…how she couldn't possibly be mine. But remembering how hurt you were when you found out about Maryann Baynum...if I couldn't understand why for the second time a woman was claiming her child was mine when it wasn't, how could I expect you to? You had been hurt enough and I wanted to protect you. So you see darling, I didn't give you the chance to forgive me."

"But I had already forgiven you," Della said, a bit bewildered by his admission. "Once I realized how nasty I had been to you, and how what I said made you think I wasn't ever coming back, I couldn't very well blame you for…finding someone else." She nudged his hip with a bare foot. "Did you have to find someone so soon, Perry? Really, it's insulting how quickly you moved on."

Della was no longer clutching the sheet to her body, and although the external guard was lowered, the internal guard had yet to be fully breached, her stubbornness every bit as strong as it had ever been, still protecting her from nothing but herself and the feelings she had never been able to escape. Perry reached out and trailed his fingers from her collar bone down between the most perfect breasts he had ever beheld, to her sweet, sweet navel.

"If I had admitted then who the woman was and why Kaitlynn couldn't be mine, we wouldn't have been apart the past three years. I'm not the one needing to forgive, my love, then or now. Can you forgive me, just like that?" His snap of the fingers wasn't as sharp as hers, but she had always been better at it than him anyway.

Before his eyes, Della emerged from behind all that stubbornness to lie down next to him, one slender arm gliding over his torso to embrace him. He was wrong, but she wouldn't argue with him. He had done nothing unforgivable. Almost from the day she had met him, Perry Mason had taught her with actions as well as words never to make assumptions; but when it was critical to everything they had been, were, and could be together, she had ignored that important lesson and made the most absurd assumption of all.

"I made an assumption too, you know," Perry went on, in no way able to know how eerily his words mirrored Della's thoughts. "I thought it truly was Hummel who came between us. I assumed you turned down all my proposals because deep in your heart you knew there was another man you _**could**_ say yes to. I wanted to know, but I was too afraid to ask."

"Oh Perry," she breathed, half choking. "We're both intelligent people. How could we have been so stupid?"

Perry turned and gently placed her beneath him, where she belonged, where no other woman had ever or would ever fit so perfectly. She tasted like love and longing as his lips sought hers in a sultry kiss, her back arching toward him. Tears threatened again as his body reacted in ways only Della could make it react, sensations he had thought might be lost to him forever. He would spend the rest of his life reacquainting himself with every inch of her, pleasuring her as she had never been pleasured before.

"I don't want to over-analyze what happened, Della, while we sort everything out, like in the past," he whispered into her ear. "I want _**this**_. I want to be close to you, and not deny…"

"Lust?"

"I'll go with lust if you want, but I was going to say passion and desire, or plain old _**need.**_ I need you, Della, I've always needed you. You fill up what's empty in me. Let's not deny what is right between us because other things are broken. Lust and desire and need will help us fix those broken things that much quicker. I want to come home, baby. I'm asking a lot of you after everything I've done, but I want to sleep with you and wake up with you while we sort everything out this time. We've wasted too much time due to my damn conservative disposition."

She snickered, wrapped in the warmth of their gloriously long history. He wasn't perfect, but he was perfect for her. Her hands, elegant, ladylike hands, slid from his chest downward and around to his backside in a most unladylike manner as she bent her legs and lifted them around his hips. He moaned at the movement, at how the shift in position brought his...lust...closer to her welcoming softness. "I need you, too, Perry Mason. I tried to deny it, but the past three years only showed how very much I need you."

His eyes darkened with emotion so primal it would have frightened her had she not recognized he was merely feeding off the licentious invitation evident in her own eyes. "No man has ever loved a woman more than I love you, Della Katherine Street," he said raggedly. "If nothing else, believe that."

Della barely breathed as Perry hungrily continued his rediscovery of her body, as she came alive beneath him, as her trust in him and immeasurable love for him emerged from its chrysalis shiny and new and achingly beautiful. His insistent mouth and hands were everywhere, adoring her, teasing her, pleasing her as no man ever had before him or since him. She strained toward him, almost levitating, as every cell of her body exploded in transcendent ecstasy, hysterically pleading, desperate for him not to stop, never to stop, oh _**please**_ don't ever stop, writhing and sobbing as those long, capable fingers relentlessly ravished her.

The sound she made when he finally settled himself inside her incredible body again with infinite gentleness was still more musical than music, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. That is until she made that _**other**_ sound, that indescribable sound of their life together.


	26. Chapter 26

TCOT Absurd Assumption C26

_Note: Thank you all so much for indulging my quest to overhaul PMR; for reading, and for commenting. I hope you enjoy the last (I promise!) chapter._

_~ D_

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><p>The doorbell began ringing as Perry finished fastening Della's dress while she wrapped up a conversation with her Aunt Mae's nurse on the telephone. He had gotten around to telling her about his conversation with Mae and the ensuing hysteria mere moments before Betty called with a positive update. Della couldn't be too upset with him for not telling her sooner, because by not doing so he had accomplished what Mae would have wanted more than anything with what cognizance remained – for them to be together again.<p>

And in her mind, Della knew they were together again, that what they felt for one another was deep and undeniable. There was still a lot to talk about, more explanations and decisions to be made, and they would handle it the way _**Perry**_ wanted this time. Tomorrow they would tell Mae, and maybe, just maybe there would be a spark of recognition, possibly a smirk of satisfaction because Mae most of all had always understood exactly what it was that attracted her niece to Perry Mason, as well as what it was that sustained the attraction.

They tumbled and stumbled down the stairs like two guilty teenagers on prom night as the doorbell continued to ring, the finery of their clothing both containing and enflaming raging middle-aged hormones, the smiles on their faces softly reminiscent as well as slyly anticipatory. They had practiced making innocent faces with one another, because Perry said she looked well-loved, which she claimed was the height of conceit on his part, but because he had such a loopy grin on his face she let it pass with only a partially raised eyebrow.

Bart was leaning against the doorbell button, an enormous platter of sandwiches balanced across his arms, when Perry flung open the front door. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, pushing past his brother and entering the house.

Carter followed quickly behind, a boxed sheet cake in his arms. Henny and Valerie carried bowls of fruit and salad.

It took two more trips for the men to empty not only Bart's rental car but Della's car as well of platters of food and several gallons of alcohol for Della's 'official' acquittal party, an informal open house which Henny theatrically explained was being thrown because it hadn't been fair to exclude everyone from the celebration lunch after court adjourned. A round-robin series of phone calls and word-of-mouth invitations were begun by Gertie and Mildreth Tragg, and Della began to fear that half of Los Angeles might show up at her house that night, judging by the amount of food and alcohol being brought in by the men. She had to smile at a sticker on the plastic wrap covering all the food: California Cuisine Deli. Perry must have mentioned it.

It appeared Perry and Della needn't have worried about covering up the event(s) that took place while preparations for what might turn out to be the social event of the year were being made, as their in-laws squabbled about what was actually being celebrated and virtually ignoring the guests of honor. Bart and Carter insisted the celebration should spotlight Perry's triumphant return to the courtroom, while Henny and Valerie maintained it was an _**acquittal**_ party, and the person who had been acquitted was _**Della**_.

There was a third option no one was discussing, and that was the fact Perry would be opening his practice again, a subject he'd broached with Della while they showered and dressed, and which she met with silence and sky-high eyebrows. He gamely tried to cobble together a cogent argument, but the fact he had attempted to present his case while she stood before him in nothing but black lace panties, a matching strapless bra, thigh-high stockings (quite arguably the greatest invention in women's fashion _**ever**_), and velvet evening pumps embellished with a starburst pattern of rhinestones over the pointed toe meant he was doomed to total failure.

It was difficult for Perry to think of anything but Della while Valerie and Henny ordered him around, placing the platters of sandwiches and appetizers on every conceivable surface in the kitchen; of how they had spent the past couple of hours, of how much he had always loved her, of how breathtakingly beautiful she was. What had Henny always said? It was _**unfair **_how naturally beautiful Della was, and tonight Perry thought that unfairness rose to new, unobtainable heights.

Her dress was one he remembered quite fondly, a black velvet Thierry Mulger stunner with drop shoulders and a petal-shaped skirt that fit like a second skin. The velvet portion overlaid a horizontally striped, stretchy knit long-sleeved 'shirt' with a short mock turtleneck collar that managed to cover but be sexy as all get-out. He called it the 'optical illusion' dress, and marveled how it could fit Della's curves even better now than when he had first bought it for her five years ago. When she wore it her gait changed from that of cat-like grace to snake-like undulation, and he knew she was completely unconscious of it.

That was okay, because he was conscious enough for both of them.

As was suddenly Henny, who paused in her activities to stare at her sister-in-law, slack-jawed, finally taking notice of more than preparations for the party.

"Too much?" Della fretted, smoothing elegant hands down the figure-molding velvet, self-conscious at the relative quiet surrounding her. The dress suited her much more than the drop-waisted flowered monstrosity she'd bought to make Asher happy, and she had chosen it specifically tonight because Perry had chosen it for her.

Henny gulped, tried to speak, failed.

Valerie patted Della's shoulder. "If you've got it, dear, flaunt it. It's your party. You should be the belle of the ball."

Della shook her head. "No, the party is for Perry and his –"

"The party," Perry thundered from the other side of the kitchen where he was assisting Bart with setting up a bar, jumping on the opportunity to make his opinion known, "is in honor of Della agreeing to be my secretary when I reopen my practice."

"Assistant," Della corrected with a charmingly impudent smile. "And I haven't agreed to a darned thing."

"Did I not, Miss Street, recently make you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

Della usually had the last word as the true boss in their working relationship, even though the offer recently made had nothing to do with work. "We'll talk." But she ducked her head to hide the blush that crept across her cheekbones.

Perry broke into the boyish grin that thirty years ago had very likely laid the foundation for the greatest happiness he'd ever experienced.

Valerie, an astute student of psychology, watched the exchange, head bobbing between her brother-in-law and, legal status notwithstanding, her sister-in-law. Her keen blue eyes narrowed as the air around her crackled with potent undercurrents, much like it had all those years ago when Perry showed up for a holiday dinner with his lovely secretary in tow. It was a phenomenon rarely experienced, indescribable, and highly enviable.

Something had happened while everyone was out of the house, and Valerie had a very good idea what the something was.

"Okay," she announced with a clap of her hands, "they're at it again. Who had five o'clock on the day of acquittal?"

Carter pulled a folded sheet of paper covered with a grid of squares out of his inside suit pocket and squinted at it. "Arthur Tragg."

Della gasped, appalled. "You took _**bets**_?"

"Better look at three o'clock," Perry advised, the picture of innocence.

Della sat down at the island and put her head in her hands. Everyone else swiveled their heads from Perry to Della, and back to Perry, who merely shrugged his shoulders, his face comically blank. Good thing he had practiced.

"Well I'll be damned," Carter said after another squint at the bet grid. "I won."

"I don't believe this," Della moaned.

"Well, we thought about betting on the time you would be acquitted, but that was so boring. Hardly anybody signed up until we spiced the pot."

"Were you surprised at how quickly the hearing was over, Perry?" Carter asked as he snuck a carrot stick from a tray. Henny slapped his hand.

"Not a bit," Perry claimed. "In fact, it would have ended before it began if Paul had gotten the information from Acton sooner." And that was all he would say about it. No use going over 'what if's' about the case. It was over. Time to move forward. In more ways than one.

"Were you nervous at all being in the courtroom again?" This from Val, who had been mesmerized by Perry's performance. "It didn't look like you were."

"He's never nervous in court," Della replied for him matter-of-factly. "It's a professional sport to him. Questioning witnesses causes his adrenalin levels to surge just like an athlete."

"Were _**you**_ nervous?"

Della shook her head. "No. I just pictured Perry naked."

Val laughed first, quickly followed by Henny. It took the men a few seconds longer to figure out the joke, and once Perry began to laugh, Della finally gave in to her own laughter. Val coughed and quickly left the room, waving to everyone that she was okay.

No one could talk for several minutes, for every time someone tried, they would laugh again. Val re-entered the room, wiping tears from her eyes, after taking two doses from an inhaler and having what the doctors would term a 'productive' coughing session. She breathed with an audible wheeze, but couldn't have cared less.

"Well," Perry finally managed to get out, "had I known that, the winning time might have been noon on the dot."

"That was Gertie's bet," Carter chimed in and everyone burst into laughter again. Carter could barely control his laughter, which he knew probably surprised his sister, who considered him a stuffed shirt, humorless and rigid. He could be rigid, he knew that, but he wasn't humorless. As a matter of fact, he was appreciating his sister's sense of humor immensely at the moment.

"You people are ridiculous," Della said as the laughter continued. Of course, who else but hopeless romantic Gertie would have chosen the earliest possible time for them to...reunite?

* * *

><p>Gertie was the first guest to arrive, on the arm of her new beau Albert Pajor. If she thought being greeted with chuckles and grins strange, she didn't let on, possibly because she was so pleased to introduce a handsome, successful man who treated her with kindness and respect to the famous Perry Mason and his former secretary, two of her favorite people on earth. Perry shook the man's hand with an overly firm grip, and to his credit Albert Pajor didn't flinch. He met the silent warning in the attorney's eyes with reassuring candor, and the grip relaxed.<p>

The party had been presented as an open house from seven to ten, so a steady stream of friends, neighbors, former colleagues, as well as famous and not so famous celebrities passed through Della's front door. Arthur and Mildreth Tragg's daughter had been tapped to keep an eye on the food, assisted by Chief's little girl, Heather. Kay-Kay's sons were tasked with picking up discarded plates and napkins and stuffing them into trash bags, while Heather's older sister and another neighborhood teen ran a make-shift coat check operation out of the den. Mixing drinks was the grandson of a former client, watched like a hawk by Bart.

Della wondered why a banquet hall hadn't been hired, but as the evening brought more and more people over her threshold, she realized the informality and familiarity of welcoming those she cared for and who cared for her into her home was relaxing and enjoyable. Leave it to Henny and Val, expert hostesses, to plan the perfect party.

Still bathed in the glow of what Bart referred to in his deepest voice as their 'tryst' and pleasantly woozy after a couple of tasty margaritas, Della tried to stay close to Perry, atingle from every small touch, every tender look, every affectionate word, but as the crowd grew in size and people moved in and out of the house, the demands on their attention pulled them into different rooms. At nine Della escorted a few Gordon Industries colleagues to the door and after a quick stop in the kitchen to hug Lisa Tragg and Chief's little girl Heather, she headed to the dining room where several flickering pillar candles created a cozy, homey ambiance and where the remaining guests had gathered.

Perry was near the fireplace, talking to Fletcher and Everett McGreavy, twins who rarely went anywhere without the other, including on their honeymoons. Since they had managed to marry identical twins with a similar bond (and whose parents should be seriously taken to task for naming them Laney and Delaney), it wasn't as bizarre as it sounded, but they certainly received odd looks when it came up in conversation. Perry reached out an arm and snuggled Della close to his side, never breaking stride in his conversation with his law school buddies. Fletcher and Everett, possessing that undefinable twin telepathy, silently communicated their satisfaction to each other.

Others in the room didn't possess such highly developed communicative talents, including another of Perry's law school buddies Art Emmelander, who let forth a piercing whistle, which caused a chain reaction of applause and cat-calls. Della blushed becomingly while Perry just grinned, which was enough to confirm the results of what had become known as the 'nooky pool'. It was heartening to know their friends hadn't changed much in all the years they'd known them.

Paul Drake, with a sober expression on his face, excused himself from the group of ladies he was charming and extricated Della from Perry's embrace, ignoring the thunderous look Perry gave him, and escorted her to a quiet corner in the living room.

"So it really happened," he began the conversation. The buzz going around was that Perry and Della had recently _**reacquainted**_ themselves intimately with one another. Just the thing he hadn't wanted to hear, for oh so many reasons.

Della willed herself not to blush again. "That depends on what you think 'it' is."

That's all the acquiescence Paul needed. He was getting better at reading between lines and identifying smokescreens. His father would be proud of him. "I hope you know what you're doing. I'm putting that guy on notice that if he does anything..."

Della laid her palm against Paul's cheek and regarded him with shining eyes. "Paul, I love you. You're the child I...never had. The child _**we**_ never had."

Paul didn't need to follow the direction of those shining eyes to know she was talking to him but looking at Perry Mason. "I had a father. I don't need him."

Della's smile trembled. "I know you had a father. You had the best father in the world." She could not have predicted how readily Paul Drake, playboy extraordinaire, had taken to fatherhood, especially after his son came to live with him full-time. "But you're wrong about Perry. You do need him. And he needs you."

Paul snorted. He loved Della more than his own mother, whom he hadn't spoken to in months, and for most of his life hadn't understood how such a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman could waste her life on someone as full of himself as Perry Mason. "He doesn't need anyone but himself. He's a fully contained narcissist."

It saddened Della to realize Paul must have been play-acting during their lovely lunch, probably for her benefit, and that he still carried that Perry Mason-sized chip on his shoulder. "Paul, do you remember a long time ago when Perry called you Boo-Boo?"

Paul made a disgusted face and rolled his eyes. "I remember telling him to _**stop**_ calling me Boo-Boo." He had forced Perry to spend hours watching _The Yogi Bear Show_ with him when he was a kid, stretched out on the floor of Della's cozy apartment, usually using the big attorney as a pillow. The only nickname he disliked more than 'Deuce' was 'Boo-Boo'.

Della's eyes were now shining with tears. "Do you know why he called you Boo-Boo?"

"Because Boo-Boo was Yogi's simple little nobody sidekick."

"That's not how I remember Boo-Boo at all," Della said quietly. "I remember Boo-Boo being Yogi Bear's constant companion, and very often his conscience. Just like you were Perry's constant companions."

Paul cocked his head to the side, wondering where she was headed with this topic. Perry didn't have a conscience...

"I asked Perry why he called you Boo-Boo. He said it was because you were better than the av-er-age kid. It broke his heart when you told him to stop."

Wow.

Paul's swallowed with great difficulty as his eyes shifted from Della's exquisite face toward Perry Mason, who didn't even have the decency to pretend he wasn't blatantly staring at them.

Della's little story inflicted a serious blow to what Paul had thought was his new-found maturity. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about it.

"Perry doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve," Della continued. "And it isn't easy for him to tell someone how he feels. But when he does find a way to tell them, you can be sure he means it." She stepped up onto her toes and kissed Paul's cheek. "Talk to Bart, Boo-Boo. You two have a lot in common."

She tried to move away, but Paul grabbed her hand, his expression dazed and stricken. "Del, I had no..."

Della laughed softly. "You can't change Perry. He is who he is, and who he is...is the best man I know. She squeezed his hand. "I made a terrible mistake three years ago. It was me, Paul. I tried to change him even though I knew better."

Paul watched her walk away from him, more beautiful than any woman who could be his mother should be, toward the man she just admitted she loved in her wise, private way.

And he was mature enough to recognize it.

Wow.

Perry wasn't many steps away from her but Della found it difficult not to break into a run and launch herself at him. She realized in talking to Paul that while they had been more physically intimate than most people could ever hope to be mere hours ago, she shockingly hadn't told Perry something he had told her over and over again with words as well as with every single thing he'd done for her the past couple of weeks.

Fletcher and Everett had reseated themselves next to their wives and Perry was standing at the fireplace by himself, slightly removed from their group of friends and relatives, watching her every unconsciously seductive move as she advanced on him. He'd just shaken hands with Don Uptegraff, Evelyn's contractor husband, who had agreed to take down the wall separating the dining room and the kitchen. Perry would go to San Francisco the following Monday, return the same evening, and spirit Della away to his favorite desert inn for four days of relentlessly debouched assignations. And at the end of those four days, the wall would be gone and they could start part two of their life together with a clear view of everything.

Della felt giddy and oddly nervous, the power of his gaze an electrical current feeding her wildly beating heart. How could she have given up a man who looked at her like that?

She walked directly into his arms, snuggling against his broad chest, laying her head over his heart. A couple of heads turned toward them, but nothing was said this time about their display of affection. Everyone present had seen Perry and Della embrace over the years, and it appeared that they would see them embrace for many more years. It was good, it was normal.

Perry wrapped his arms around Della. "I missed you."

Della knew he wasn't talking about the few minutes she'd spent talking to Paul. "I missed you, too."

Perry kissed the top of her head, a deft, unobtrusive move perfected over the years.

"I love you," Della said.

Perry cradled her against him, one hand moving up to press her head more closely to his heart. He smiled. "I know."

**THE END**


End file.
